Casandra

A sore looser, a loathed loner, a dragon going against race, against flight, an aberration of nature.
Casandra is big, bigger than ever the standard of stocky bogsneaks, and she was mean. Maybe it was a necessity, to be abrasive because she could not revel in softness, because her own genius could only be polished in blood, maybe it was luck, that she had never learned submission as an only child.
But even then, why fight?
The ground crackles around her, electric with magic, a restless and ancient thing she can only barely grasp. Even moving the cliffs, undoing and creating the landscape at her every whim is such a small thing, so insignificant in the mighty face of the earth. She can feel it moving like sand around her feet and it amuses her, how anyone could ever think such a monumental thing could be still.
And yet she is alone, too rare to live, too prideful to die.
And she fights, she grapples with her mother in infancy, the snapping teeth merciless against even a child. She grows strong still, a mountain of a dragon, something too heavy to ever be a wind, never mind her birthplace, she was born with her feet on the ground, claws buried in the musky soil and that is how she will die. She fights because there is no other way, her body is a dance and she is a mountain god, a behemoth built on her own pride and the blasphemy of her magic. She fights against herself even, the gold of her eyes and the blood in her veins, against her own kind.
Casandra fights, and that is enough for her.