Fíadh’s not that dense, and she can tell that Detlef’s words are more aimed at her then describing the little horse, but her attention is too captivated to bite back with a rebuttal. Instead she slowly lowers the bag of horseshoes to the ground and turns to grab the brush behind her. She clutches the brush tight in her hand as if it were a sword, probably the only way she knows how to hold things honestly. But her approach is soft and she slowly lowers to her knees before the pony. Tentatively she holds her free hand open for the little thing to sniff before raising the brush to its neck.

“... Where did you get him?”