The fires caressed her again, then tortured her. Hammers and scrapers made her shorter and slimmer, but she felt her balance improve. Cold water shocked her and forced her into a new, gracile curve.
Once properly dressed in skin, wood, horn and cotton, she resumed her watch. Her keepers called her “The Handless Poet,” and practiced with her against tatami, and the bodies of condemned felons. They developed a tradition of practicing with the right hand alone, as well as with both hands properly matched.
And she fought. The battles were small and large, over petty territory and to protect the very islands themselves. Once blooded, she was respected and treated. She did her best to imbue her bearers with her thirst and strength, so they could present themselves with honor.