With winter still blowing its frigid gusts against his back, Castile roams placidly across Loess. An inner warmth branches through him, heating his skin comfortably despite the freezing temperatures. Soon, he contemplates, spring will arise once more and melt the thin layer of snow that tracks his every step. Flowers will bloom across Beqanna and children will make their entrances into the world.
 
A beautiful season, really, but it hardly fazes Loess with its scraggly vegetation and ferns. It isn’t a tropical paradise here as perhaps Ischia (he has never before seen the island, but has heard about it and smelled the saltiness of its beaches), but it will at least be warmer.
 
A plume of black smoke coils from Castile’s nostrils rather unexpectedly. The heat of fire burns in the pit of his stomach, threatening to rise until he forces it back down with a heavy swallow. The ability still strikes him as odd and so very new. His throat has a rawness from the unfamiliarity of it, but it at least keeps him warm during the winter months when most others shiver from the cold.
 
Still moving forward, Castile casually searches for young Lepis, wanting to finally speak with her away from Heda and the watchful eyes of their herd. It would be embarrassing to never have a conversation with his friend’s daughter… a sort of niece, perhaps. It isn’t urgent which is evident in the nonchalance of his movement until their paths finally cross. ”Lepis,” his voice is husky, his breath clouding briefly, ”How are you? Hopefully not getting into too much trouble today?” A low chuckle slips from him as he reaches down to bump her poll playfully.

Oftentimes, Castile wonders how the responsibility of Loess was thrusted onto his shoulders. He isn’t one that thrives in a spotlight or lives for the power of a monarch. Mother and Isobell were leaders; he, on the other hand, mirrored father. He has always been content in his seclusion where he practiced a nomadic lifestyle with no responsibilities except those to his family. Nothing held him down or trapped him until he acted on Ivar’s invitation to Loess.

He wanted to be the General, to fight. What he got, was a niece and the title of Regent.

When Castile peers down at Lepis, however, the prickling of uncertainty subsides.

Her smile melts away the frigidity of his opinions on the matter. The bubbly ignorance and joy that permeates the air when she is near is enough to quash the doubts he has always had since his ascension to the role. In a matter of days, Castile wanted to help raise her and to protect her; he wanted to play the role Ivar assumed him suitable for.

The tenderness he extends to Lepis is almost natural as he brushes her poll, teasing her forelock. He half-expected her to stir trouble, but she eases away his concern with bubbly laughter that transpires into something more along the lines of concentration. From underneath his locks, Castile’s brow quirks in anticipation. He listens to her closely and outwardly weighs the idea of a small adventure. ”Your mother told you no, didn’t she?” A coy grin twitches the corners of his mouth, amused by her tactics practices on him. Leaning forward, he sweeps his lip back and forth on her lithe neck considerately.

A silence settles between them except for the idle ruffle of his wings. It would seem as though the offer is being declined until he finally speaks, his voice low and deep for only Lepis to hear. ”Where will our adventure begin?”