A horse is a horse, of course, of course
And no one can talk to a horse of course
That is, of course, unless the horse
is that old warhorse Mr Ned


Short in the tooth and long in the ears
He still has room for a few good years
His time out to pasture will surely come
But until then he'll still take his fun...
...wherever he can get it

Grizzled and a little hoary looking
Lined and scarred with years of life
He still has a quick trot and a gleaming smile
His hooves and eyes shine as bright as his spear

A full 20 hands high at the shoulder
nine and a half feet to the top of his head
built like a Percheron stallion
dappled coat turning grey like his hair
always with a long bow and a heavy spear

Most times he can be found in a quiet spot, simply enjoying his pipe and an ale or ten, 'liquid bread' he calls it, he needs all the calories he can get  and it takes a lot more than that to get a ton and a half of solid horseflesh drunk, even if he wanted to be





Warning:
That dark sheath behind his belly isn't for show.
He's a horse, a very large one, and is actual horse sized which is hardly anything by local standards but the more 'average' girls may need to use a little finesse.

He prefers his own kind or maybe a farmer's filly, it's just easier that way. He's also gotten used to being a novelty to tavern slatterns and curious young maidens alike and although he tries his best to be careful, if someone absolutely insists on having a ride he'll oblige them, but when the bell sounds for the last lap it's a lot easier to giddiup than whoa !!