Her second year was complete, and like a true daughter of Autumn, Caprica had been nothing but productive in her time. As she wandered among the fruits of her labour, though, they felt cold and barren as the oncoming winter would surely be. Things, they were just things. Yes, she'd slipped into the role of Abigor seamlessly - hell, it was all she'd ever done: construct and craft wildly varying creations, like the hand of nature, creating just because she could - or because she had to - driven unconsciously by some mysterious craving... But lately, despite the cherished distraction of reuniting with her family, the unease had been building and she only found peace in the most forbidden of thoughts, which made her feel still worse.
Surrounded by a sea of tangled projects and assorted scraps in her Aladdin's cave of a home, she paced restlessly, picking up pieces only to put them back down. Nothing could hold her attention, for none of it really meant a thing - at least, that was the prevailing temper for the young d'Angelo. Inanimate objects could not assuage her heartsickness, and she could not construct with hands and tools the only solution that she was bored of lacking. Her eyes closed and dream pictures were called into being. A figure, face, warm sincere eyes... A light smile curved her lips, but before they could frame even the beginnings of a name, her eyes flew open again. No, there was no true name to fill that place and that was a fact, and that was the ache. No name, and no face. And lying to herself wasn't working. So, out of desperation and sorrow beyond shame, were born her next actions. She needed some kind of help, on a level beyond the material realm this time. Tradition would not assist the aberrant; that was one of the many reasons she could not go to Ravesque. But she had heard mention of another local wisdom.
She spent a while, then, changing her mind; forming the request that she wanted to make - changing her mind about that; deciding she would forget the matter entirely, and then becoming certain that it was the only way, passing the time with cutting leather thongs from a beautifully soft black hide and knotting in some rare and symbolic cowrie shells, discovered strangely on the banks of a forest brook - perhaps left by another collector. After a time, she tied the finishing knot of a simple but elegant bracelet, and turned it around and around in her hands, admiring the natural way the shells clasped the cord and the contrast between the speckled-ivory and the black knotwork. It was just right, and it decided her completely, even though she'd still not managed to figure out her precise plan yet - or even, really, a vague transcript of what she was going to say - but before she could waver yet again, she marched purposefully from her den, hurrying to another similar entrance in another similar tunnel in one of the ubiquitous rock faces that framed her home. Once there she tested the air, not wanting to disturb the inhabitants. Hey was what she meant to call out, soft and unintrusive, but something screwed up in her fraught voicebox and it came out as more of a low whine, like a dog, asking to come in from the cold. Smooth...