Gorlim slides the stall door open and circles the animal slowly, inspecting his tail, his mane, the pattern of black and white on his coat, his hooves, the thick feathers...

...feathers.

He grins.

"Rhofal," he says, feeling the horse's thick shoulder muscles. "This means... ah... pinion?" He isn't entirely sure if that's the right word in the right language to translate. "The feathers used for flying. On the tip of the wings." Spreading his fingers, he traces a pattern as his his arms were wings. Flight feathers.