The sheer size of the carthorse dwarfs the slender body who now leans comfortably against her neck, his eyes closed. Malta--for that is her name--gently lips at Tuo's hand a time or two before lowering her head to whuffle at his shirt.

"Mulled wine?" Detlef offers, and Tuo smiles with clear gratitude. "Please," he says, gives Malta's broad neck one more gentle stroke, then steps lightly away from the horse to approach the fire again. As for the rest of what Detlef asks, he makes a mild sound and waves a hand. "This has been a more eventful visit than I anticipated. Bitter cold, winged beasts, soldiers--I prefer the feasting and wassailing."