01-01-2017, 10:28 PM
“Cassady!” She calls after the fleeing purple form, frustration clear in her voice, but her older sister does not slow or stop. The purple is easy to track, mane and tail waving jauntily behind, but she is perpetually behind. Carwyn mourns, not for the first time, the loss of her wings. It was easier, before, to keep up with her big sister. Even as a child, she had been able to keep up, her wings allowing her the edge she needed to go anywhere except to cross to the realms of the dead. Now, though, the playing field has been leveled and while Cassady is used to flitting from place to place, the shorter and less agile pinto girl is often left behind.
It’s not malicious, that much she at least knows at this point, but Cassady tends to lose sight of the immediate needs of others. She would eventually return to her sister, full of sorries, but not until the current adventure has run its course. No, Carwyn has learned that she must keep up or miss out, because as loyal as Cassady can be in the long-term, she is as fickle as they come in the short-term. Grandfather says that she comes by it honestly, the fickleness, that thin vein of meanness even, but Carwyn can’t imagine what he means by that. She supposes it’s the part of the family history that causes tension between mother and grandfather, the one he doesn’t think she needs to know.
She is out of breath when she comes to a halt, finally, beside the purple mare and follows her gaze to the others; blinking back surprise that her blue roan coat is the tamest of them all. Intrigued, distracted, she doesn’t even think to introduce herself, just stands quietly in her customary spot in Cassady’s shadow.
It’s not malicious, that much she at least knows at this point, but Cassady tends to lose sight of the immediate needs of others. She would eventually return to her sister, full of sorries, but not until the current adventure has run its course. No, Carwyn has learned that she must keep up or miss out, because as loyal as Cassady can be in the long-term, she is as fickle as they come in the short-term. Grandfather says that she comes by it honestly, the fickleness, that thin vein of meanness even, but Carwyn can’t imagine what he means by that. She supposes it’s the part of the family history that causes tension between mother and grandfather, the one he doesn’t think she needs to know.
She is out of breath when she comes to a halt, finally, beside the purple mare and follows her gaze to the others; blinking back surprise that her blue roan coat is the tamest of them all. Intrigued, distracted, she doesn’t even think to introduce herself, just stands quietly in her customary spot in Cassady’s shadow.