Word Count :: 300+ I'm feeling gormless today. Quite an impossibility to stop Caspa sounding the same :o
All her puppyhood stories had been about princes. Kings, and princes, and gods. Females hadn't really had a look in, and so to her logical mind, the stories were flawed, invented by those who only wanted to idolise themselves. It was hard to shake off that kind of conditioning, though, and Caspa didn't think it really mattered what kind of characters were in a child's stories - it was the tales themselves that mattered. And those had been mostly of war and punishment. This was a bigger failing than any other, as it had helped her see the world as a hard and cold place, full of judgement and domination. Despite her steely exterior though, the young hybrid found this more of a call to action - to help the downtrodden, including herself - than a dispiriting state of affairs.
She hadn't meant he was a prince literally. But in his own story, he had sounded like he might have played the role. After denying her summary instantly, he seemed to think further and come to an inward conclusion. She didn't know what she was being thanked for, but perhaps turning his story into a fairytale had helped after all. Sometimes it helped to hold a mirror up to a person, let them look at themself in another way. She shuffled her forepaws in front of her, folding them together absent-mindedly for something to do while he recommenced his meal. Then her digits tensed together as he started to laugh, and it soon became clear he was laughing at her. Caspa slitted her eyes so they became thick marker lines of darkness, and with a curl on her black upper lip she returned "Bedtime. Where most fairytales come from." A little more huffily, she added "There are better kinds of stories, true. But it was you who did not think to appear in one of those." Now she was concerned this discourse might turn into a quarrel again, but it seemed it couldn't be helped.
Image courtesy of ®DS @ flickr; Table by the Mentors!
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