Word Count :: 310
The old canine had grown used to questions about her own eye, and though it was bothersome, they shared something, both being eyeless—it should have been different. Were it not for Susquehanna's previous kindness and gentle soul in the face of her nephew's dark terror, the hybrid woman might have been more anxious in the Valley wolf's presence. She knew very well how powerful blood was, how it called her own back to her—she might have suspected such madness ran through Haku's family, as well. Her mother, her grandparents—canines she had never met, ones who she knew by name alone, had shaped and molded her into her present form. She did not need to know them intimately well to feel their subtle influences over her mind, her desires, everything—she knew only her mothers' near-incoherent ranting and raving, but beyond this, her ancestors were strangers.
“Same. I don't remember what exactly happened, either, but it was a long time ago,” the woman explained. Her memories were fading—she could not recall the faces of anyone before Inferni. It was as if they were a tiny, distant part of her past, unimportant and irrelevant. “Better to forget pain, anyway,” the hybrid muttered. Physical pain was easy to forget; when it faded, so eventually did the memory of it. The emotional pain she had suffered through her life was much more difficult to mute, and she found even after many years, it was impossible to forget.
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