“What kind of texts?” Her expression runs a little blank, uncomprehending for a moment: what use is books, when working with the animals is all hands and intuition. (Different strokes, different folks.)

“But good point. Well-trained ones will take a rider anyway, even if it’s not, like, their favourite.” Astrid hops to sit on one of the nearby crates, holding various farriery supplies, packed away for transport back to Kirkwall since they’re less interested in keeping horses here now. She’s almost instantly distracted from what her original task was here, but look, taking a break is healthy too, probably.

“And you wouldn’t want one of the birds to bite your hand off ‘cos it thinks you’re spending too much time with one of the other sick griffons.”