And Yet

She was Dotharl.

Those who chased battles to their dying breathes. One of many among a proud xaela steppe tribe, that had not seen victory in the Naadam in felt like ages. Whose number could never seem to grow. From an early age she had been trained in battle. Not just in this life. But in the previous, and the next. She was not allowed to fear death. She could never fear death. In death would her soul sing.

And yet.

In her previous life, she had been a mighty warrior. That was what she had been told. An imposing figure that strode across any number of battlefields and laid low countless foes. That person whose name she now carried could strike fear with a single stare, or so the stories went. An elder of the Dotharl, as much as one could be an elder among the Dotharl, even went so far as to regale her with the tale of her death. How she had saved his life at the cost of her own. Especially detailed was the moment when an ax had entered her back, and the scream the Mol who had done the deed let out upon realizing that he had caused her last breath. She had been fearless to the end, as all Dotharl should be. As she should be in this life.

And yet.

By the time that elder had died in the next Naadam, she had begun to see that perhaps she was not the perfect Dotharl. She reveled in combat, as she should. The thrill of battle was like nothing else, the scene of blood, the pumping of adrenaline. It was ecstasy. Yet part of what drove her was that wonder, what worry. Whenever it seemed possible, when it was called to fight or flee, she felt the pang to flee. To falter. But she could not. Dotharl did not flee, and thus she could not flee. So she would continue to fight tooth and nail out of obligation. Hoping that she could erase that doubt from her mind.

And yet.

When the first Naadam she would be of age to join approached, fear finally clutched her. She could see it in her technique with an ax. She was strong, but far from the strongest. From afar in the camp she had saw what she would be facing, some stoic Eorzean and a set of Domans. Outsiders that the Mol had brought in to even their odds. It was obvious how this would end. A blade to the chest, a blast of fire to the back. She was to die again.

And yet.

If the Mol would draw from outsiders, so could they. She took a grand task upon herself. To cross the sea and venture to Eorzea. To forge herself anew there, among its many warriors. The land there had been shaped by conflict for what felt like decades. From warring armies, to the summoning of gods, there was no end of battles to be had. An endless amount of information to be gathered. When she was ready, when she knew truly how to fight, she could return, head held high. No fear. No worry. She would be as expected out of her. She was Dotharl. Destined to die, and live, and die, and live. But she could insure that the path to her death was long, and bloody.