The chisel slipped in her grip, and Dyakida hissed as a stray crystal splinter stung her finger. She nursed it carefully. She could feel it on her tongue, the sharpness of the crystal as she removed it from her finger and spat it onto the cloth next to her. Blood soon replaced the sharp taste – a mere pinprick, of course, but still enough to pierce the skin. Anger blazed within her – at her tools, at the crystal, and at the spear that so defied her... She leaned back and took a deep breath, calming herself. Perhaps it was time to take a break. After all, it was dangerous to craft while unfocused.
Peyla chimed in her ear, and she felt tiny, gentle hands caress her cheek. “I am fine, Peyla.” she said softly, and she was. “I just need a moment.” Perhaps she had worked herself too hard this time. No... there was no perhaps. She had. As she thought about it, she could feel her fingers ache from their labors, her back cramping from hunching over her work. Briefly, the thought of a vacation shimmered in her mind... but what would she do?
Rest? Why, when there were Sisters who could not rest? She had been born a pureblood, of Aisha's own will, and despite the loss of her sight this had given her advantages in her life. In the meantime, there were those who had been born of the love of two truly different parents, and the love of their Goddess. They were born into adversity, straddling the edges of two races. Worse were those who Aisha had chosen to craft as males. Their Sisters were arrayed against them, and they had to fight for even the slightest bit of ground in the Tribe... at least, that was what it seemed.
Was that how Rishima felt?
The thought surprised her – she barely knew the half-shifter, but she knew he had chosen the most traditional path of all: the way of the Amazon, the way of the spear. Did he have to fight for every step, or had things settled? She'd heard that he had proven himself during the Oban war, as had many. Her weapons had proven themselves, too, but her mettle had been tried in a very different way. The injured had to be tended, the dying comforted. The Obans had had their own injured and dying, but she found herself curiously lacking in empathy. Instead, she wondered how many of them had been pierced and died on his spear.
They'd talked, once, about the invasion and what it would mean for Jauhar. They'd thought the jungle an impregnable fortress of poisons and beasts. They'd been wrong. In the end, though, the Obans had been repelled. All was well, more or less.
Was the Rishima of then different than the one she had met only a few days ago? Yes. Undeniably, yes. How? Aside from his kindness and confidence, which were obvious, she didn't know him well enough to put her finger on it. She had changed, too.
One time, she would have thought of war as only a way to raise her prestige; a war needed warriors, and warriors needed weapons, and someone must, after all, make those weapons. But now, she knew better. War was not to be thirsted for or glorified. It was grim, bloody work, a necessary evil.
She sighed, stretching her fingers. She did have to try to finish this spear, though. That was the thing about weapons: battle was a necessary evil, but a good weapon could help a warrior surmount that evil... and survive. This spear, hopefully, may well help a young hybrid warrior to survive, just as Rishima clearly had. She owed him – she owed all of her brothers - that much dedication.
And then, maybe, she could rest.
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