Safflower is large for one of the compound's horses, but like all the others is stocky, big-headed, pretty confident and easygoing for a horse, and unshod. There is no sign that she's ever known the touch of the spur, but some marks show in her neck where blood has been drawn. Her tack is half familiar, the saddle lighter and less structured than a warhorse's, not something that would help keep him in place in a pitched battle. The stirrups are short, meant to keep legs well bent, all the better to cue the animal. The bridle does not have a bit - the reins pull on a noseband around the sensitive snout.
At the gates Lashan is waiting with her tacked-up gelding, a gray beast just a couple hands taller than Safflower. Thistle is decidedly past his prime but still several years out from being geriatric. It seems from the scars in his hide that he's both seen action in the past and received the care it took to let him recover from it.
Lashan, kitted out herself in quilting and leather, is fully in horse girl mode, standing close and stroking his neck while Thistle props his long chin on her shoulder in equine contentment. He pricks up his ears on their approach and whickers, and she turns her head to see.
"Forgot to ask how you are with a horse," she says in greeting, though she's caught images from Guts' mind of riding. She hasn't picked up on any of the sense of love for the animals that bear him which she thinks is right and proper, but Lashan's been in this barbaric set of countries for long enough that that doesn't bother her like it did when she came off the Plains. It would have if he beat them bloody or cut up their sides or rode them to collapse without desperate need.
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At the gates Lashan is waiting with her tacked-up gelding, a gray beast just a couple hands taller than Safflower. Thistle is decidedly past his prime but still several years out from being geriatric. It seems from the scars in his hide that he's both seen action in the past and received the care it took to let him recover from it.
Lashan, kitted out herself in quilting and leather, is fully in horse girl mode, standing close and stroking his neck while Thistle props his long chin on her shoulder in equine contentment. He pricks up his ears on their approach and whickers, and she turns her head to see.
"Forgot to ask how you are with a horse," she says in greeting, though she's caught images from Guts' mind of riding. She hasn't picked up on any of the sense of love for the animals that bear him which she thinks is right and proper, but Lashan's been in this barbaric set of countries for long enough that that doesn't bother her like it did when she came off the Plains. It would have if he beat them bloody or cut up their sides or rode them to collapse without desperate need.