[html] From the outside, it seemed to Caspa that all the lives of others moved at a different pace to hers. Although surely time could not alter depending on who experienced it, the changes, the shifts and events that occurred for them seemed to have such lasting effects. Canines grew up from puppies to outstrip their former guardians in size, friends drifted apart or found new love for one another, and even enemies and criminals could take part in the mystical cycles of life. But for Caspa, very little altered. The white lady felt almost like a statue, sometimes, perched in her lofty hotel room, where she only had to close her eyes to feel the hum of life all around her but not within, for within was only stillness.
The pace of her life was utterly sluggish, excepting the random - but lately more frequent - occasions when she broke the cycle of meditation-knife-practice-sleep to journey in the outside world, or be beaten to a pulp. Everything Caspa did took endless amounts of time. Her main task, her life's work would only end with her death, and she had accepted that. But even in the shorter term, everything she had chosen to study were things that took an inordinate amount of time. Meditation - each technique could be worked on for years before it fell into place, she'd read. Then there was her knife throwing, which required endless repetition to ensure safety and competence. Caspa supposed she was destined to live a life most would find dull, but at least she found contentment here. It was in her nature to follow the slow and steady path, despite her quick hands and eye. Any task that was tedious and time-consuming seemed to attract her instantly. Thus today, her current expedition that was so far taking at least twelve times as long as she'd expected it to.
While checking out the borders - and going a little way over into the forest, the scene of her recent defeat - the optime-formed hound had discovered a moose's trail, and known from the prints the great beast was limping. Caspa had chosen to follow, although the path was hours old. Not due to hunger, for the larders were stocked, and she ate so little anyway. It was more the notion that the creature might be in pain somewhere, and perhaps it would be merciful to kill it before it died a lingering death.
Half a day had passed before she caught up to the animal, in the process finding herself being led through a gap in the reserve fence that she and Augustus could have done with knowing, all that time ago - Caspa had offered a silent thank-you to her unwitting moose guide for showing her this, and it had redoubled her determination to catch up with it. When eventually she found fresh scent reaching her nostrils, it was mingled with the smell and sound of running water. The large deerlike creature stood beside the bank of the river, a huge grandfather bull, his head low and eyes dull. A hindleg was propped up, and the joint above the hoof looked swollen. Caspa approached warily, but if he knew she was there, he gave no sign. When she came closer, she spied another injury: a shallow but broad wound on the top side of the moose's neck behind the ears. This looked horribly sore, but clean enough and no longer bleeding. The wolf-dog hesitated, crouching down to look at his hoof better. She knew she had that terrible decision on her hands now: which was more merciful - life or death? Well, the ankle wasn't broken, as he was resting some weight upon it. While Caspa thought, she suddenly recognised where she was. Not many miles from the borders of Aniwaya, the pack she'd marched upon as part of the Courtly attacking forces, during the last year. There were so many unanswered questions about that pack: not least what state it was currently in. Vigilante had assured her that the new leader was benign, but were the Tribe truly succeeding in rebuilding their lives after the tyrannical Maska had almost caused their destruction? Caspa wondered if she would ever fully understood the events, or the part she had played. All she had done at the time was blindly obey her orders. Now, she found herself wondering what more there was to the story. And the thought of the fighting focused her mind. There had been enough death of the innocent these past few years. This was just a moose, but it was still a living being. She would give him his chance.
It was then she noticed the staring quality of his coat, and the hollow look to his face - and as she did, the bull opened his mouth, extending his lips towards the water as if trying to reach it without bending his neck any further. Caspa realised he must be unable to lower his head fully to drink, and she gave a sorrowful murmur in her own language. Carefully she sidled closer. The moose was like the horses - big, and unpredictable. She didn't want to be kicked. He looked quiet enough, although his eyes had definitely glanced in her direction. Step by hesitant step, the woman drew nearer, moving with infinite delicacy and slowness, still holding herself low to the ground, wondering if that made her look less threatening. To her surprise, he allowed her to approach to arm's length. From here she could see the hopelessness in his eyes. Perhaps he thought she meant to kill him: perhaps he welcomed death. But Caspa did not draw the knives that hung in the belt from her shoulder. She crouched, and cupped her hands into the water: lifted the bowl of palms to the animal's dry and cracked lips. He seemed to hold his breath for a moment as if in shock, and then she heard a loud gulping noise and the water was gone: vacuumed greedily from her very hands. Caspa's mouth twitched, in what passed for a smile, and she reached down for a second helping. Well, it looked as if she'd got herself into yet another lengthy, tedious and probably thankless task… but she had no feelings of resentment. The ghostly, plait-sporting pilgrim was bound to a life of altruism and she took her good deeds wherever she could find them. [/html]
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