They were instead infuriatingly joyful and excitable all the time, all day, every day, which Handy experienced first-hand and had no escape from. See, the chieftain, Bambi, she of petty revenge, had placed them in one of the Oakenhearts, specifically the Hishym of Greenmoss. Hishym was the local name given to those odd town districts that seemed to simply hang from the sides of the immense trees. Now, Handy was no stranger to impressive architecture. Backwards and schizophrenic everyone in this world seemed to be when it came to technology, these assholes took architecture fucking seriously, be it the changeling city, Skymount's mountain castle, or Canterlot's oneupmanship in the form of its own mountain city. That was architecture he could understand, impressive beyond belief, yes, but he could well believe they were constructed. Some people thought those who lived before the twentieth century, with rare exceptions, were ignoramuses incapable of anything comparable to modern marvels. These people were philistines, and it was a fool who was dismissive of a people who, with sufficient motivation, could build mountains.