Six months.

She’d left at that age and been gone just a little over that same amount.

Her reason for leaving was her father, Crow, who for as long as she could remember had an affliction. It caused him to throw up black ooze due to stress, anxiety and sometimes his insomnia. Later on, they’d found out the ooze was his soul, and if he did not put it back, he would eventually become soulless.

It became a routine of hers to collect it in a bucket for later, helping her father the few times he accidentally aspirated it into his lungs (a simple floating spell). However, since they’d gotten closer to Tanglewood, and eventually moved in, his condition had worsened. The expulsions became more frequent, even on the most relaxed of his days. She had had enough of his fragility, mostly due to her own concern for his health and the fear that her father might one day be an empty husk. It was in all, too much for a kit to handle, and so she impulsively decided that she would find a cure for the illness.

She packed her bag while Crow was out with Morgan, much to Selby’s curiosity. Her hat was stuffed in her suitcase, along with a few snacks, books she felt she needed, a few potions and some knives(two were strapped to her sides). It was, an interesting array of items to say the least, but she didn’t have many belongings to begin with. With her suitcase ready, she had left in the cover of night.

It was the same cover that she came home under. She’d grown ever so slightly, but to her disappointment, she still looked very much like a child. Unlike herself, Tanglewood was much changed since her departure. It looked more lonely, though the buildings were fixed up. Perhaps it was just the night, maybe they were sleeping. Though somehow, she knew one would not be sleeping at this hour as his cottage came into view. 

Taking her broom and suitcase in for a landing, Pastel pushed back her hood and pulled on her hat. She had no need to hide her occupation now that she was back. With a swift paws she went to the door and gave a few knocks. A pattern that Crow would know too well.

.. / .-.. --- ...- . / -.-- --- ..-

There was the startling wind of the door opening, and then her face was buried in fur. She noted that some places felt pointy, possibly soul that had dried after one of his fits. His scent was comforting and familiar, enough to make her eyes water and her nose turn strawberry. There were new wisps tied into it, but it was still his own.

"To look for a cure."

She had found eons of information in her short travels, but yet no cure made itself apparent at present. Crow's condition was an enigma few had interacted with, and even fewer were willing to share what they'd learned without payment of some kind. In the end, most instances of those with it died or disappeared without a trace.

The house's interior had changed minimally, a Wendigo mask hung on the wall over the mantle with two other hooks beside it. She didn't want to ask about them, lest her father speak the name of the creature and slowly doom them all.