Chapter Text
As a young child, Zuala had heard whispers of a girl born with hair the color and sheen of steel, eyes a deep amethyst and skin so white it appeared to glow. She had been born into an ancient lineage of legendary warriors, the last of which had been born several generations past. It was said such warriors wielded an unimaginable power and were known for felling the most dangerous of beasts and enemies. The elders said her birth heralded an age of conquest and bounty for not only their village, but for all their people. Orphan Maker, they called her, prophesying the many that would fall to her blade. It was their duty to prepare for when the child grew into her full power and a call for warriors went out across the land.
Inspired by the legendary tales of these ancient warriors, and for the good of the tribe, Zuala’s parents’ had pledged her for warrior training. To herself, she had promised to become strong enough to earn the honor of fighting alongside this Orphan Maker and protect her.
A few years later, there had been a celebration in honor of the Orphan Maker, for it was time for her to begin more intensive training. Soon she would start traveling to other villages to train with their most experienced warriors. Zuala had been excited to finally catch a glimpse of the prodigal child and had been working on a gift for her for weeks. It was traditional to give more practical gifts, such as weapons and armor, but Zuala wanted to give her something special. Something that no one else would think of.
When it was her family’s turn to present their gifts, Zuala waited for her parents to present the Orphan Maker with theirs and then stepped forward and held out her own gift. Draped across her hand was a woven crown of blue and purple flowers, along with a smaller version for her wrist. It was rare to find such colorful flowers in the wastes of Xhorhaus and it had taken Zuala weeks to find enough of each for the gifts. The Orphan Maker had gasped, her purple eyes lighting up and thanked her.
“What use does the Orphan Maker have for such trivialities,” she heard one of the elders sneer.
“For you to remember your home village, Ophan Maker,” Zuala said, ignoring the elder, and bowed. She felt a small hand on her shoulder and looked up into the eyes of the child before her.
“I will treasure it and think of you and my village in my travels.”
The Orphan Maker pulled her closer in an embrace and whispered in her ear.
“And please, call me Yasha.”
As Zuala was led away, she turned back towards Yasha and saw that she had already slipped on the flower bracelet. Yasha had given her a quick glance and smile before turning to the next person presented to her. Smiling, Zuala followed her parents towards the rest of the festivities.
As Zuala grew older, her training became more intensive and she grew stronger everyday. They had kept Yasha separate from the rest of them for when they weren’t training and she was often away to train with the strongest among their people. When she did train with them, her strength and ruthlessness was something to behold. Their teachers would have them fight her, sometimes to the death. While Zuala noticed no hesitation when dealing the killing blow, she appeared to take no pleasure in doing it. She also noticed that Yasha would heal those she was allowed to spare, even though it was against their teachers wishes.
Several times they had fought each other, practicing the new moves they had learned earlier that day in training. While Yasha could easily out maneuver her, they seemed to be matched in strength, much to the disappointment of their teachers. The Orphan Maker was expected to be the best of all them and would often have her do extra strengthening exercises when she lost. After one particular grueling session, they had taken a break to eat and rest.
“Zuala,” Yasha tentatively asked, “Where do you find your strength?”
Surprised by her question, Zuala took a second to mull it over while she tore into some jerky.
“For me I think it comes from duty and my desire to protect my people,” she answered, “I need to be as strong as possible if I am to protect and fight alongside you.”
“The matriarch says that I am not strong enough yet, that I am too soft, too emotional and that it clouds my thinking in battle.”
Avoiding Zuala’s eyes, Yasha started to tear into the grass, continuing, “My only thoughts should be how best to serve my people. That my only attachments should be of loyalty to the tribe.”
Zuala looked over to Yasha and saw her deep in thought. Reaching her hand out, she took Yasha’s chin and lifted it so she could look her in the eyes.
“What does she know of battle up close? Her power comes from the arcane, she does not know what drives a warrior to battle, what drives them to keep fighting even when mortally injured.”
“And what is that?” Yasha asked as she searched Zuala’s eyes. Her face softening, Zuala placed her other hand on Yasha’s shoulder and drew her nearer.
“When in battle, Yasha, you must use your emotions to strengthen you. Channel them into your sword and let your enemies feel them through the bite of your steel.”
Hearing the sound of footsteps drawing closer, Zuala leaned back and stood up.
“Now Orphan Maker,” Zuala said loudly enough for their teachers to hear, “Let’s see if you remember what you’ve learned.” Holding a hand out to her, Yasha smiled, reached out and took it.