CASIMIRA
dragon-shifting daughter of ashhal and ryatah
She knew very little of her father, other than his name and that his relationship with her mother had been complicated, to say the least.
But Ryatah had hidden nothing about him—she never did concerning her children’s sires, ensuring that even if their father was not in their life for one reason or another that they knew exactly how they came to be. The stories were softened up, though, their edges made less sharp and any darkness was brightened if it could be.
Some required more softening than others, and while Ashhal was not one of them, he did come with a gentle warning that he might not be keen on the idea of two boisterous twins seeking him out unexpectedly.
Young Casimira had not understood this, had not been able to process that idea that anyone would not find her and Cassian’s antics anything but amusing. If it had not been for her budding dragon shifting she likely would not have heeded her mother’s warning, but wrestling that feral beast that so longed to break free had consumed all of her adolescent years, along with all the other obstacles that she soon encountered in her path.
And so, even if he felt like a missing piece in her own life, she eventually accepted that she was a piece better off lost in his, and she never went looking for him.
Looking now at the pale gray stallion that she had visibly irritated there is nothing to indicate that this is the man that had so long been a source of mystery and intrigue in her childhood. She is too busy steeling herself against his verbal assault to remember anything her mother might have said about him, and forcing that armor of scales that long to rise to his irate tone to remain at bay requires most of her attention. Her ice blue eyes are the only thing that hint to the friction in her chest, the way they shift to something decidedly more draconic, piercing and almost relentless when they fix themselves to him.
“Endless supply of what?” She asks him, the confusion evident on her face. Her assumption is that he means dragons; that he had taken note of her great white wings still clasped to her sides, that he had seen the scales and spines as they laced across her body. The idea that he sees her mother—so clear if you know what to look for, that same delicately shaped head and unnaturally white color—never occurs to her, and the way she watches him now is with a cautious kind of defense, though she doubts his dislike of dragons could run deeper than her own.
@Ashhal