Stupid black colt lunges at her - eyes wide with fury. In haste, the grey girl scrambles backwards, nostrils flaring as they suck air in. But his teeth never meet flesh, and that gaping mouth contorts into a howl. He backs away as well, leaving the iron thing to stand still, as if witnessing someone being stricken by lightning. His eyes flash with fear, and she should relish it, but instead there is a hollow feeling. Was she born and does she live for the fear of others? What would father think of her now? Grey eyes flick towards the pile of bones and meat and skin laying on the ground awkwardly. A monster, someone says inside her head, you are born of dogs, not sentinels, you are not fit to be his daughter. She sneers, tossing her head raucously and contemplating making a run for it.

The bridle on his face, her father's bridle, pulsates with sickly green, casting his expression in something which haunts her. Mesmerized, the girl is frozen, ears flicking back and forth uncertainly. He falls onto his knees, blood gurgling from his lips, dripping onto the leaves below. A sickly sense of relief grasps her - she does not have to kill him, she does not have to tarnish her father's name - another glance at the corpse, like the elephant in the room.

Black mutt runs around her master in stupid circles. Perhaps she will need someone to take her out of her misery? Cassandra contemplates this with disgust, eyeing the Labrador with a similar notion in those bloodstained eyes. She finds herself compelled by some otherworldly force to come closer, drawn by the convulsing boy in the pool of his own blood. Ears facing forward alertly, she pauses several feet away, close enough to smell the blood, to memorize its components.

His eyes open and a smile crawls onto his face, like some madman on the prowl. Irises are close to her color, although there is a hint of blue instead of cold cold steel. Face leans closer, she can taste his breath now. He speaks - voice clear and bright; those grey eyes widen in surprise at the words. "Brother?" her voice drops to a whisper, trembling with emotion. Eyes narrow. How could someone so great as her father produce such a weak thing, laying in a pool of his own blood. "Of course I know him," she says with indignity, "- he is my father." She does not know much about family, but there is something she should do, she thinks, something tender and sweet to the blood of her blood.

So: unceremoniously, with mechanical movement, the girl nudges her brother on the cheek, taking in the metallic smell of blood. With an expression of no expression, she takes him in;

brother.
black.
dog.
blood.

Roanne.

Family.

"Get up," she says softly, backing away to give him a berth of space. "And get clean, you have blood on your face."