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It was not the grand, sweeping architecture of the hotel that disturbed him nor the apparent technological feats to which he would have to become accustomed. He had, after all, lived in Paris, where all the latest and most important inventions made their way. The bright lights, the motorized devices, the moving doors...Those were things that he could come to an understanding, regarding their use.

No, it was the stillness. The quiet way in which people gathered for meals but didn’t really talk and then wandered the gardens in the same quiet. No threat hung over them, no call to action. D’Artagnan sat useless, feeling as if he might fly apart from inaction and it was only his first days yet. If he was bound here as long as some people suggested, he thought he might go mad.

There was, at least, one distraction that had apparently--blessedly--not changed in the intervening centuries. It was how d’Artagnan found himself at the stables, befriending and saddling up an energetic gelding. He had regarded the young Musketeer imperiously until bribed with an apple and now d’Artagnan could lead the horse out to the surrounding hotel grounds.

D’Artagnan mounted and kicked the horse into a trot and then a canter. It didn’t take long before they gave into their spirits and moved up to a gallop, ranging about the grounds.

At last, if only for a moment, he felt himself again. Caught up in the energy, the sheer joy of riding, d’Artagnan no longer felt quite like he was about to explode out of his skin. Instead he felt alive, raising a fist and shouting his joy.

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Chiana frowns, shifting in the saddle. Her natural stance's been helping her feel at ease on the horse, but that had been painful. "Show me," she requests, because she's always been better with show than tell.

"Put the balls of your feet on the stirrup, like this," d'Artagnan demonstrates, pressing up and down in the seated position. "It's called posting. You do it in time with the bouncing."

That still doesn't sound any kind of comfortable, and she's ridden some old pieces of dren that barely held together when they took atmo. Still, she isn't one to balk from something like this, so she checks that her feet are positioned right in the - stirrup, he said? - and then gets the horse going again, pressing her heels in until she shifted into that bouncing pace.

Chiana grits her teeth until she finds the right rhythm to, well, post, apparently, and then it's less painful, at least.

"There you go," d'Artagnan encourages. "Just like that!"

'Just like that' still doesn't feel any kind of pleasant, and after a few more seconds, and turning the horse around so they're facing Dart again, Chiana pulls on the reins to stop her. "This trats," she tells him, with feeling, because there's nothing remotely good about that way of riding. It's uncomfortable and probably gets tiring after a couple of arns.