The hands of a soldier, Carved and Calloused.
Writing piece for my twst oc.
The gouge gently scraped off the wood, its movements light and delicate. The partially finished wooden flower carving in her hand was serving as a good pastime.
It was, however, in some strange fashion, funny. How a hand that brought the end to so many, could bring new life to an old block of wood.
Nevertheless, it helped ease the memories of the past. A past whose marks have carved into her skin and long interred itself into her bones.
When you thought about it, she was just like this piece of wood, fate’s markings carved into her like a relief portrait of history's past.
One such detail on the portrait was the scars that ran across her body like details that added depth to its meaning.
A set of deeply faded laceration scars on her back from whips that served as a reminder of her old station. A soldier meant to follow orders.
A less faded gash on her arm from their recklessness in combat that permanently devalued their worth. Even now, centuries later, her hand wasn’t capable of the same grip as it did.
But a soldier incapable of holding her spear properly was only dead weight.
Still, arming swords existed, and therefore she continued to fight until the war’s end.
That was when Sycorax truly lost her purpose. A soldier raised to fight had no purpose for an age of peace. But something in her wanted to try life for the first time.
And as Sycorax looked at the finished carving, it seemed she did learn how to live life.
At least a little bit.
