certified sad boy hours

Pythia had to decide if being blind was a positive or a negative. Had she been cursed by genetics? By the gods? Her mother only briefly mentioned Abraxas here and there, but with the instruction of her uncle, she was beginning to have a better grasp on her familial ties to the entities that controlled their lives. Because perhaps they had blessed her. Though she could not see with the two fleshy orbitals that hung uselessly in her skull, she could see with the other senses her body had been provided. Every swish of grass, every flutter of wing, call of a bird, the step of a paw, her ears would swivel, listening to the coming and goings of those around her. Even her paws, every time they would touch the ground or reach out for something, she could feel what they looked like, feel the ground tremble with each step. And when her nose would move with her muzzle, scenting the air, scenting the wolfs, the plants, the animals, they would nearly come to life before her. She too would soon find out that her mouth did not belong on everything for not everything tasted pleasant, but it was a quick and easy way to figure out what was food and what wasn't.

It was these things that Pythia used to navigate through the world. Through the marshy estuary that she wanders, not exactly a target destination in mind, but life did seem to surprise her now and then. A surprise indeed she would have as her head pokes above the reeds and grass, the wind shifting in just the right direction that she could be presented with her uncle's scent. Ah, now that was a wolf she would be interested in conversating with again!

Keeping her nose tilted upward so that she could continue to scent the air for him, Pythia follows as best as she can. Each step is calculated, testing the dirt beneath her for rocks, sticks, and anything else that may lie in her path. She does well minus a few trips and stumbles, but otherwise reaches Pontifex unscathed. It of course, tires her and her mind having to work so meticulously so that she doesn't receive any injuries, but that's was her life.

Approaching him even closer, taking note of how the frost also crunched beneath his much larger paws, Pythia lets out a sharp bark to alert him to her presence. Of course, he's probably noticed her by now, her movements are rather loud and clumsy, there is hardly any grace behind her steps as she learns her way in the world. "Uncle," Pythia greets, trying to stay with his movements, hoping that he stops so that she doesn't have to try so hard. She would smile, but when her nose wiggles to inhale his scent, she can practically taste the sour mood that clings to his fur. While some may not be as keen to emotions as Pythia is, she notices. Something about the hormones and pheromones, all that biological business, she's more aware, more sensitive to it all.

"Does something plague you?" She questions, head canting, pale blue eyes unblinking and staring not quite at him.