Rohaan nodded, considering this and eventually deciding it was reasonable. A cultural thing, he thought. He had lots of those, and he had learned a lot about what culture really was to different people now that he'd been thrust into one other than his own. He himself had a lot to learn about human culture, as Vokurians had different priorities, values, and taboos, despite some crossover. "So you scare 'em off with your bald head? Because you're magic. Huh." Rohaan considered this as well, then nodded his approval. He'd never heard of a hedgemage before, and he wondered what exactly Hanabaptiste knew about shifters. Not much, probably. 

She asked what he was not capable of turning into, and the boy beamed with sudden pride. "Not much! Except like...a rock. Or a tree. Or um...[I]estoja[/I]. What's the Carisian for that...? Um...oh, coral! Like in the sea. Did you know they're not a plant or a rock? There's an animal that lives in there and the rock part is its shell. I used to watch them come out and eat each other alive! They do that, they really do. But I can't turn into one of those. They don't like...have a brain? Or blood, so no jellyfish either. But like, anything else! Really! I can be an animal or a person, or like, me but older--see, watch!"

The boy transformed in the blink of an eye to a tall, broad shouldered man with the same wild blonde hair, tanned skin, and inquisitive eyes. He had stubble on his chin and thick, calloused fingers, but the same scar showed on his torso. "I'll probably look like this when I'm twenty summers," said the much deeper and yet vaguely familiar voice. "But I've got a favorite form besides my natural one. Ever seen a Cyradan before?" 

The man disappeared and in his place was a sleek black dragon-like creature. It was smaller than his usual, since a full-sized one would rock the ship horribly off balance, but the juvenile form was the size of a pony. The graphite-colored teeth and talons looked wickedly sharp and would put a tiger's to shame; he was very careful not to scratch the deck with them. The body was black, the scales a matted satin sheen that made him only a shadow in the dim light of the moon. And like a snake, they were smooth, not armored like a mountain dragon of legend. The wings were somewhat leathery, but also velvety and warm like the end of a horse's nose; these Rohaan spread slowly out to show them off and then, tilting his head back to give a sharp cry, lines of colored light seemed to erupt down his lithe form. They began between his eyes and flowed down his spine and tail, curling around his shoulders and across the structured part of the wing. Other stripes decorated his dark face; they pulsated and flashed a dim, nearly reflective red light rather than a brilliant one, similar to some deep ocean creatures or fireflies that possessed bioluminescent cells. The lights extinguished, leaving him a shadowy slinking figure only dimly visible in the moonlight.

Then, in a split second, he was a young, scrappy boy again wearing a big proud grin, looking to all the world like a ratty but normal young lad no more dangerous than a house cat. But he had a sheen of sweat now, just barely visible in the pale moonlight. "Pretty neat, huh? Just wait 'till you learn how to ride. Everyone here knows how to fly with me--we do it in combat sometimes, especially Wheel and Uban." Deftly, he climbed up onto the gunnel and sat on its edge with his bare feet dangling over the rocking sea. Despite the ship's movement, he had no fear of falling. "I can't change my eyes though," he said, looking up at the now appearing stars. "It's how people know what we are. And our silvery blood. I have to hide them when we go into port or else people find out what I am and try to hurt me," he admitted. "I'm tough, so it's hard to do but..." he looked down at the hole in his still faintly bloodstained shirt. "Sometimes people do."

Rohaan looked out at the dark horizon and crunched his stolen cookie as the wind tossed the free strands of his hair about and carried with it the soft sound of Uban's quiet plucking on his lute. The Borealis had only been his home for two years, but it felt like the best one he'd ever get. He didn't know where his real home was. He and Berlin had looked over maps that spanned all of Carisia from coast to coast like one giant island split into multiple parts, trying to find where Rohaan might have come from.  The boy had never seen a map before, so he had no point of reference to guide him. He knew only that he was from the far south where it was always warm, and that he met Berlin quite a ways north of that. Despite being the place he spent most of his young life, it was only a distant memory now rather than something real. But the Borealis was real. Berlin was real. And so was the sea. Wherever he had come from, this was undoubtedly his home now.