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Ahead of you there is a mount, that has the appearance of some strange hippidion or hardy pack-breed of the mountains. There is rope enough for a makeshift harness, and a discarded iron bridle trodden into the ice and frost of the earth.
Winter here is the thief of warmth in the blood; where the wind is a wolf gnawing cold marrow from the bones.
The horse snorts and its warm breath mists in the cold air; its temperament seems a little restless, but overall the creature appears calm.