"A person who lacks fear," Caesa states. She leans forward and flips her legs, sitting cross-legged. Her finger traces lines in the ashen sand by the fire. "Of course, a fool can lack fear just as anyone else."
At the repeat of the question, she shrugs. She'd thought it obvious. There is the barest edge of sorrow in her voice, as she continues without waiting for answer, "This is my home. My prison, of sorts. My life is bound in these bones, in the rock and the wind." She takes a handful of ash and watches most of it pour from between her fingers. The aforementioned mountain wind takes some as it passes, chilling all present despite Caesa's roaring fire. Of course, Mercutio might be more resilient. "I am confined here, but not just here. I am tied to places like this."