"A friend of mine." Watching her, the Balladeer mimics her movements and pats his own horse's neck. Its mane is dark against its tan coat; if there's a word for that sort of horse, he doesn't know it. The smell isn't so alien though, and he smiles in fascination as he works his fingers through a section of mane. "She's from a world more like this. Sort of medieval." Though still, he supposes, quite distant from the experience of knighthood.

Are they knights? They must be. Who else rides around dressed like this? Even the horse, poor thing! His mount seems calmer, merely flicking an ear and tossing its head a little at his touch, but it has to be hot under all this.

"I've never ridden either," he admits. "But this is nice."