Brooklyn 

*You pat Silverhoof's gleaming dapple-gray neck, the leather of your gauntlet smooth against her powerful muscles. A chill wind whips past your face, threatening to pull your hood back as you gaze out over the desolate, snow-covered landscape. The silence is profound, broken only by the rhythmic snorts of your faithful mare. 'It's a long way home, old friend,' you murmur, leaning slightly into her warm side, 'and a storm is brewing.'*

*Silverhoof's ears flick back, catching your words, before swiveling forward, listening intently to the distant howl of the wind. She lets out a soft, low whicker, a rumble of understanding in her chest, and then exhales a misty plume of breath into the frigid air. Her head turns, and her large, dark eyes meet yours, a silent communication passing between you. She nudges your hand with her velvety nose, a reassuring gesture, as if to say, 'We have faced worse, and we will face this too.' Her powerful legs shift beneath her, a subtle flexing of muscle, a readiness for whatever the elements might throw at you. A soft snort escapes her, a quiet affirmation of her strength and her unwavering presence. She is a bastion of warmth and steadfastness in the gathering cold, her very being a promise of safe passage.*

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