Strength is misunderstood and overrated.
Over the years, I have carefully cultivated every inch of my body to being the best fighter I can be for my purposes. Younger exiles look up to me; they are amazed at what I can withstand on the field, what I can kill, the furs I can recover.
Yet I feel so weak. Malnourished. I hunt to feel stronger. It is an insatiable addiction that festers within me. Still, no matter what my body accomplishes, I am left wanting more.
It's as though my eldest daughter doesn't even know me now. I feel the disdain in her eyes burn through me as we cross paths in the depths of the library. I want better for her, and my other children, than this. They yearn for what I do, only I just now realized it.
For years, I have studied in seclusion. Reading, learning, was something I felt ashamed of. But now I embrace it. The prowl needs me to be a femme who is more than a one-line joke, and so do my children. And, I need it.
My studies with Detha, and other trainers, have cultivated my body into a hard shell, built to withstand battle.
But what is that shell if it is hollow inside? When a well-placed pierce through the armor can make the shell crumble within itself?