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Wannabe-ninja incoming!
She wasn't fixed yet. Her jaw injury had turned her into a blood drinker, an action far more sinister than silky coat and serene expressions seemed to allow for, and at least once a day her lungs seemed to pang at a sudden movement, and breath came short. Aside from this, though, her full range of motion had returned and she could no longer bear lingering in idle talk and frivolous games at the Cour des Miracles hotel. Despite this she certainly was not yet looking for a fight. This in no way meant, however, that Caspa was unable to travel and begin what was sure to be the most arduous aspect of her self-appointed crusade - the search, and the research, that would bring her into a position of power and strength enough to remove her enemy from the face of the earth. Intelligence and knowledge were power, but of course they weren't the full story, and the insubstantial white dog had spent some time contriving and assembling the tools which would bulk her into something more formidable than she was ever born to be. A belt of Sabatier knives, corked ceramic vials of venom and leather bracers on arms and legs made a good start: her sturdy and deflective leather trench coat was currently in the possession of a friend, but she had a new hood crafted from black boar-hide by her own hands, which extended a way over her shoulders and finished in a swathe of black cloth doubled back scarf-like around her neck. It was light and not impermeable, but certainly protection and a little warmth.
Caspa was, it could be said, fairly naive about the lands she had made her home. She rarely travelled, and had no links of friendship to any other pack save one - Salsola, far in the north. But this was also the most enigmatic of the tribes, by common consent. No solid rumours ever seemed to emanate from that stronghold, even from its own residents, some of which she was on speaking terms with, although the relationships were frail - Denver had become so distant since allying himself with that pack, and the other Salsolan man she knew, she could not stop herself from fearing, irrational though it seemed. Caspa was in general a dauntless character, free from fear's tyrannical hold. But there was something about the dark rider that spoke to parts of her she could not control.
It was nothing to do with the other rumours, of course. The man in the city had told her many had taken him for a slaver, and Caspa could believe it. Whispers of capture and hostage had been heard before then, and call her paranoid, but Caspa didn't think that the AniWayan political prisoners had been the whole story. Then, she'd fought Amy for her principles and the existence of the dire trade had been proven. That woman was a travelling trader, of course, but there must be places to ply her wares and maybe even ground for her to return to - existence was always easier with a base. Caspa could only guess, but her best assumption was that this troublesome homeland would be found further north, away from the entirely peacefully-claimed peninsula and past the lands she knew, for nobody from any of the more local packs had ever made reference to the despicable woman or her practices and she preferred to live in hopeful belief that they could never be so. Of course, there was the mountain pack, and she knew nothing whatsoever of that stronghold. They would be due a visit, if here she did not find what she sought. But Caspa was here now, with only her legs for transport - but they did well enough, tirelessly eating away at the miles. In some ways the rhythmic motion was a relief, a distraction from the dull ache in her chest, and every stab of pain only drove her determinedly onwards. She skirted the lands of Salsola and paced onwards, keeping the low winter sun firmly behind her to the south where it could not stab into unprotected eyes - the barren winter landscape was harsh enough. Moving this way, it was a long time however before she next scented a canine trail, and this incidence coincided with the sighting of a dilapidated town ahead. It was quite different to the concrete sprawl of Halifax, and somehow more sinister - squat buildings with empty yawning timbers and hole-ridden porches. The tracks were extraordinarily faint and indistinguishable, so much so that Caspa wondered if something was the matter with her senses - but maybe it was just because the winter ground was so hard and impervious to outside influence. She was not entirely sure, then, whether she followed a recent visitor or not, as she tip-toed into the town.
But indeed, here was a likely hideyhole for a band of criminals, the still-standing buildings eminently suitable for storage, and an extremely abandoned air - almost forbidding. Beside the ghost-trail she seemed to be tracing, there were no other signs of life whatsoever. She halted in the middle of a street, not sure why she had for a moment, but then realising the tracks had utterly stopped. Caspa glanced both ways, reaching up to draw her hood momentarily back and caught a sound to her left. Like a gust of wind had suddenly blown at her, she swished away to the other side of the road. She knew what she'd heard had been a deliberate and conscious movement inside the darkened homestead, and the trail had ended just outside: the canine was within. A second breath of imaginary wind blew her sidewards further, to nestle against the doorframe of the opposite house, drawing all but the edge of her hood and one black eye behind into the shadow. She watched the occupied entrance hawk-like. Who was there, and what were they doing? She would cover them until she knew more or was detected. Her pack-scent was already mixed with those from her long walk, and the day was so cold and still. She could only wait and see, but her hopes and pulse were heightened almost as equals in the meantime.
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