[He chuckles and it's warm and fond. He gives Orlok a quick scratch on the shoulders, positive encouragement for playing nicely.]

She won't be for long. [Even in the few months he's had her she's grown rapidly.] She's a purebred Nohrian Trotter. [There's a beat where he realizes that means less than nothing to someone unaware of the terrifying reputation of his country's cavalry.] That is, a war horse. Give her a year and she should reach 17 hands easily. [His tone is prideful. As a child growing up in the gutter he'd never imagined a future where he owned one of the most expensive horses money could buy.]