A somewhat cruel smile danced over her face, but Salvia’s expression softened as she put the brush aside and reached for the hoof pick. It was a crude thing, but useful none the less. While they did not shoe their horses and their hooves grew strong, dirt still needed cleaned in order to prevent infection. They were not as hardy as their wild brethren, though her father’s plan had told Salvia much about the way of selective breeding. For as feral as she was, Salvia was a girl captivated by science; had her world been broader, she might have sought the stars.
Bent over the horse’s leg, Salvia lifted it and picked out the large clump of dirt in one motion. “You’re not afraid of running him, are you?” She asked suddenly, raising her head as she moved to Trader’s other leg. Used to such treatment, the dun remained calm and only shifted as to better keep himself steady. Salvia was glad for this; she had almost been bit by Misty once when she had done this. Once of course. A sharp snarl and snap was all it took to remind the mare of her place.
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