She nods, a crooked smile pulling at the side of her mouth. Plourr's familiar with that kind of feeling. "Damn getting older, anyway."

A bit gingerly she lowers herself to her greatcoat and turns a fold so it's in her lap, where she can sort through that that pocket. Less out of a need for any of the contents, more to have something to do with her hands.

"I had to kill my horse. Broken leg, right through the skin. Don't know where my mule ended up, but she'll find people or a wolf's belly, soon or late." The point of mules and donkeys, she's always thought, was that they were smarter and tougher than horses, making up for their lack of foolhardy obedience with survival skills. Maybe that extends to not following a horse plunging off the road in a blind panic while its rider curses fit to blacken the stars.