[ P ] daddy lessons

Ciara was known for her tardiness in many occasions, but especially when they related to clan matters. As a rule, she had been causing trouble since she was a child. Most times this had less to do with true impish intent and more to do with a dislike for the rigidity and structure imposed upon her at clan gatherings. Ciara was the heir, and as such, she was expected to walk, talk, and think like one -- but this took time away from other things she enjoyed more, and she was not used to making sacrifices. In the past, she might have spurned the talk with her father entirely. Better to wait another day. But now... Now was the aftermath of the rebellion. Now was the time after her mother. Now was when her clan was fractured into two separate factions: those wishing for a second rebellion and those wishing to retreat amongst the fair folk. Now was a time where she looked into her father's eyes and was not sure what she saw. And so she felt differently now than she did then. She felt unsure, confused, instead of mild aggravation or irritation. She felt she wavered. And so on this morning, when her father called her, she answered somewhat promptly, finding herself seated before him only a few moments tardy rather than entirely absent. She smelled of the woods and of the earth, for even earlier that day she had been in the trees, seeking guidance from the Fae. She did not like that she sat before Toren now, because it made her feel like a child. She was not. She could imagine what he had in store for her today: probably more lectures on the sanctity of her duty, the importance of the militia cause, etcetera etcetera. "Lion," she said by way of introduction, using Toren's affinity as a proper name. He was allowed to use her true name as the chief, but all others were bound by the rules of the Fae. Ciara had not called Toren "Father" in some time. At first, it started as a joke -- see how many times she could get away with it. But when he'd failed to correct her over the months and then years, she'd just...continued with it. Now it was commonplace. Not "father". Lion. It matched the way he looked at her. ""

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The thrum of war had settled. The screams turned to silence and blood faded with the rains, now ash was all that was left. A lingering reminder of what was. Once proud, strong foundations-years of prestige and prime blood erased and he was left with the survivors. Stragglers. The threads of what was once a powerful force within Perth. Perth was once his Father's Kingdom, ruled by his iron fist. Firm yet fair. Kind, yet strong. Welcoming, yet resolute and now, now he was gone. Faded into the scribes history books. Translated to dusty pages that would perhaps one day stand ageless within The College of Éolas' halls. Yet, how would he fare? Would he be known as the Saviour of the Clan? The one to bring them back from the brink unto glory? Or would his nature stay true; The fierce lion that ran Clan Whelan into the ground and below. Turquoise eyes; the eyes of a man. A leader. A Chief and lastly Father. Shuttered under the evening sun. Once bright light hid beneath the firs and soon night would reign. The worst time for him, if he was not in a living nightmare-then his dreams would often plague him. Lion, his moniker was addressed, a familiar and stone-cold tone. A soldier reporting to their Commander. He would not move much from his prised, poised sitting position; for he would not bow, nor move for anyone. So eloquently, Toren sat upon his famed rock, a slab in which he would address his people. His family. Where ceremonies would be held. Marriages... And oh how he was taken back when he looked upon her face. So delicate, creams and whites merged to shift into a Woman fast-maturing. As if created by the fae themselves, but she was not his beloved Caiohime, no. Only his daughter. His Hier. The future of the Clan was staring back at him with the same, almost bored expression she always wore. And oh how it tore apart his insides to see-it was not her in Ciara's place. In his darkest thoughts, he wished that she would have been taken instead. His gaze was sharp, his head was tilted upwards as he looked down upon his Daughter was scrutiny. "You are slouching." His tone was gravelly and rough. "Were you not taught better, girl?" A blink and the Chief rose, much like a predator. As fierce as a lion. He paused, before jumping down to stand beside her. How graceful, how fluid his movements were. Yet his tail rose; ever dominant and and ever force within their family. Depending upon her reaction, would he then strike further. "If the accident will."

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@Ciara

"You are slouching. Were you not taught better, girl?" Ah, yes. Father and daughter falling into the familiar routine once more. Father, settled like a predator on his high, tall stone, and daughter, beneath, lesser, weaker. It had always been this way, but she hated how pronounced it was during her lessons. Toren had always tried to better her in the ways he knew how, and objectively, as a child, she'd been able to rationalize this away -- he was the chief, she was his student. But now, since her mother, the lessons had taken on a more personal quality, one that was less familial chaffing and more searing. She felt that his words were always barbed, and that the barbs were intended to sting. Still, as he snapped at her, she straightened her shoulders. He leapt down from his rock and stood impressively before her, dominance the primary scent in the air. Ciara's eyes followed his movements, but she kept her gaze averted. No one looked into the chief's eyes, not directly, not unless there was a reason. And despite her distaste and anger towards this, there was not a strong enough reason today. She had long moved beyond the point of flinching when he drew nearer. She was used to him attempting to scare her. But it did not mean her stomach did not twist uncomfortably with his closeness. She had to wonder what was next, what was coming. Toren rarely apprised her of his lessons before giving them. It made them more effective in his mind, she was sure. He went for the dominance factor in every occasion, and it was more successful when the subordinate did not know what was coming. Oh, how Ciara loathed this. She felt like she learned next to nothing about how to actually do the job she would eventually be tasked with, and she came away from it with less of a relationship with her father than she'd had before. Their always tumultuous relationship had practically been eviscerated by the rebellion -- all to do with him, in her mind, rather than her -- and each lesson thereafter was a painful reminder that they were not the same, that they would never be the same again. Someone else might have filled the silence. But Ciara remained quiet, watching a point along his muzzle with increasing determination. It was the small acts of rebellion that kept her going, even though her father might interpret them as proper submission. ""

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Many would fall victim to fear and submission, upon the Lion's proud display. The quiver of his maw, the trash of his tongue. It was a tool that he used with fine precision, only when necessary. But perhaps as of late, it had been more than ego and rank. No, aggression, unbridled pain and anger. Trauma, grief and loss. Toren had found himself lashing out unpredictably. Even over the smallest of things. And his children often caught the brunt of it. But Ciara was not foolish. She was not cowering timidly, whining for forgiveness. No, much like how he had taught her-she used her brain and chose the logical path. Submission. Yet her eyes did not deny the defiance she was surely building. The resentment, oh he could almost taste it! Did she dream of defying him? Taking over his Throne in a bloody coup? To look down upon his broken corpse with a sense of accomplishment? Or did she simply not wish to have the title of Heir at all. All these musings seemed to bubble from him as Ciara put up no response. The growl died down and in the place of anger, now came cold indifference. A snort, a grunt. Would dismiss his dominance for now. "Follow." A simple command issued and expected to be heeded. He was not one for sugar-coating words and spinning tales of glory. He was a commander. A leader. A General with the will to get things done. "Whispers are the fae grow restless," He began as they continued, his earthy paws powerfully pounding the soft earth below. His gait was bold, muscles rippled underneath a pelt of earth and cream. "Whispers are unsettling. There is surely talk within the Clan of our losses, of our... weakness'." His tone dipped, pairing with a scowl. "We cannot have dissention. Not now." At this point, Toren was practically grinding his jaws together. Spitting the words like acid from his bitter tongue. "Do you know of this?" A question poised briefly glancing within his progeny's direction. "If the accident will."

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@Ciara