→ Home, and we're together! And we'll do wonders.
[Her feet suffer from never-ending turmoil. She carries herself with the same ease she has done for years on end. She stands no longer at her post. With what she's seen, she has every right to believe that she's no longer needed to be stationed in one place. She grows restless with time, yet perhaps to some degree she is ageless. How would she know when she becomes weary of time?
In one hand, she carries a sword--a scimitar to be more precise. It is her sole companion. It is her other half. It is like a kindred spirit. She would go nowhere without it. It defends her. It offends the opposition. It protects her. It aids in her fight for the future. There is no fight, however, correct? What gives her a reason to carry it? It has become a part of her. It has drawn itself onto her soul--assuming she has one. She is only a part of herself without it. With the thought in mind, her grasp upon the hilt tightens. Call it security.
The sun is beating down like a merciless predator. It doesn't seem to faze her. She has spent many a day toiling in the heat. She was made for this. It is where she belongs. It is where she wants to be. Beneath the glowing yellow in the sky on a cloudless day. In her mind there is no such thing as rain. The cold does not exist. Perhaps... one could say it is a weakness of hers.
It's unlikely, however, that she'll find anything like that in the desert of her people.]
[OoC: I bring with me a Nabooru, novel-wise, before Zelda's rescuing and after the defeat of the two hags Koume and Kotake. Annoy her. Bother her. Speak with her. Do as you like. She won't bite. Much.]
In one hand, she carries a sword--a scimitar to be more precise. It is her sole companion. It is her other half. It is like a kindred spirit. She would go nowhere without it. It defends her. It offends the opposition. It protects her. It aids in her fight for the future. There is no fight, however, correct? What gives her a reason to carry it? It has become a part of her. It has drawn itself onto her soul--assuming she has one. She is only a part of herself without it. With the thought in mind, her grasp upon the hilt tightens. Call it security.
The sun is beating down like a merciless predator. It doesn't seem to faze her. She has spent many a day toiling in the heat. She was made for this. It is where she belongs. It is where she wants to be. Beneath the glowing yellow in the sky on a cloudless day. In her mind there is no such thing as rain. The cold does not exist. Perhaps... one could say it is a weakness of hers.
It's unlikely, however, that she'll find anything like that in the desert of her people.]
[OoC: I bring with me a Nabooru, novel-wise, before Zelda's rescuing and after the defeat of the two hags Koume and Kotake. Annoy her. Bother her. Speak with her. Do as you like. She won't bite. Much.]