Because new game releases give me inspiration to do these things…
Of course this is based on Soul Calibur V, and a few AU concepts that BlackDragonKing and I discussed. Namely, instead of Tira kidnapping Pyrrah then leaving her to live the life of a nomad, she instead kept the girl with her and raised her as her own. There's no strict character point-of-view here or a strictly linear timelime, just a stream of consciousness running from them both into the muddle that is now presented. Huzzah!
Cue Nightwish play list and air-guitaring…
She had learned quickly to remove the clawed gauntlets whilst stroking the child's hair; claws and signs of affection did not mix, it seemed - not without cries of pain and the awkward moment of realisation having been rendered helpless and without the use of one's hands by golden strands.
They both had things to learn, apparently.
For one, it was restraint. You could not bash the child's head off of the castle wall for disobedience without fear of harming them indefinitely. That was a lesson the servant had learnt quickly; the effort exempted in capturing merely one of the Alexandra children was enough to keep her methods of punishment in check. If she accidentally killed the girl, then getting the replacement of her younger brother, especially with the family of the children on high alert, would mean certain danger. She could not afford to fail now; not after rebelling against Nightmare's will in order to serve the higher power of Soul Edge.
For the other, the lesson was obedience. Her guardian was not the most timid of creatures, nor kind. She was not implying that her captor could not show kindness, just merely when it suited the woman to do so. The wrath of the clawed girl with the sickly pale complexion was enough for her to comply quickly; just glancing at the scars left by gauntlets and rubbing at the swollen flesh on the back of her head were all the reminders the child needed to obey the demon that had stolen her from her family, or what little she remembered of them.
Tira had realised not long after retrieving her new ward that she could not just lock her up like a princess in a tower. No, the child was too young to strive that way. To achieve the former- assassin's goals, their goal, ultimately. Pyrrah, Pyrrah, Py-rrah. She had tested the name on her lips. It would have to do, the child was still young enough to forget aspects of her lineage, but not her given name. Pity. Tira had never really owned anything in order to warrant it a name, even the circular steel she adored had been named by another before receiving it; perhaps one day.
Time had passed, so much time. By the time the child's age became double digits, Pyrrah was at the edge, so close to giving up hope of ever finding her real family. They had never come for her. Ever. She had scoured the bridges and river banks of Ostreinsburg castle, rode the raft that followed the current of its moat; waiting for a sign that her Mother was coming.
These thoughts clouded her mind, a sad smile in place, whilst making her rounds of the castle's waterway, sitting on the raft. She thought, in a moment of delirium, she had seen a glimmer of white silk up ahead. Her Mother was always said to wear white, correct? That's what Tira had stated once in one of her many berating rants towards Pyrrah's want of escape - to return home. Perhaps her Mother had passed that way and torn a piece of her garment? Alas, the mark of white in her vision turned out to be nothing but a wandering bird sitting upon one of the branches that hung over the dark water. The despair that struck Pyrrah, the emotion that had been building in her heart far too long, meant she did not notice in her grief the crows attacking the defenceless, white creature for no other purpose than being in their territory. The white feathers were swept away by the current of the water that surrounded the castle.
"They abandoned me."
There was a finality in her tone that shattered her denial. Tira, for years, had been stating the exact same words. Finally, the two mirrored one another. Pyrrah's latest epiphany shifted the perspective towards her captor. She had been so naïve in her rejection of the older girl that had taken her in and cared for her, whilst there was no hair nor breath of her so called loving family.
From there on out, Pyrrah decided to stop rejecting Tira and her ways, no matter how much they scared her. It could not be worse than being alone.
The older girl in the passing of time had changed much herself; growing more unstable and dangerous with each new shard of the malicious sword collected. For reasons Pyrrah herself could not decipher, her guardian's complexion had grown paler and paler; she wondered if the older girl was ill. The Greek child would never know the answer nor extent of the truth behind her ponderings. The hair that had once matched the crows that followed her captor faithfully now was as white as the driven snow. If she herself had not watched it slowly lose its pigment naturally over time, she would have thought Tira had dyed it somehow - she was prone to experimenting with such things - the purple streaks lacing the white hair a testimony to this. She had once asked Tira to dye her hair a different colour, a simply curiosity, resulting in the girl flying into a rage and having to hide until the former-assassin stopped destroying the furniture. Pyrrah's punishment, enacted several hours later, was to repair said furniture. The scantily clad woman in question watched her as she did so, sitting curled up on the throne where Nightmare resided when he used to dwell in the current home of the two females; the most unpredictable of the two brewing in an unexplainable anger, muttering darkly about names Pyrrah could no longer recall.
It was this visage reflecting in the water that snapped Pyrrah out of her reverie. The timid girl glanced up, too far gone to bother wiping the tears that stained her face, nor the surprise in her features at not noticing that the demonic looking girl had stopped the raft in its movements. The older of the two having dragged the raft a little onto the muddy edge in order to keep the other female from using the wooden creation as a means to avoid interaction. In a blink of an eye, with a heeled boot still holding the raft in place, her guardian's sneering disposition flipped entirely into concern, albeit appearing slightly confused. Pyrrah could not help but recall the query in mind regarding her guardian's age; she looked as if a day had not passed since the day the servant of Soul Edge had sneaked into her original home and stolen her in the dead of night. The only time she looked remotely near her age, or the age Pyrrah supposed she would be, was when the older girl was upset herself, or angry, which was quite often - and it was only shown in her eyes, the deep amethyst shade revealing the extent to which her captor was steeped in the taint of the Master she served. When her guardian was happy however, and happy in the most manic, malicious sense, she appeared as carefree as a child. Pyrrah liked that side of her caretaker. She liked to play hide and seek. Pyrrah always lost, unfortunately. As Pyrrah daydreamed, Tira tried to unravel her confusion in regards to the tears that marred the normally very pretty, too pretty, one of the voices would say, we have to break it, face of her hostage. For the captor of the young girl had not done anything that day to upset nor harm her. Was it possible someone else did? Tira felt an odd anger bubble up inside her at the mere thought of someone other than her hurting her charge.
Thus was the cause of their current predicament.
For all at once, at the feeling of a clawed hand resting lightly upon her shoulder, Pyrrah had broken down. Tira could do nothing else but awkwardly hold the younger girl as she sobbed uncontrollably into her blonde spoke of her realisation, apologising profusely for her rebellion of her younger years. For once, the witch that had torn apart the very girl who she held's family, was silent. She had been the one to cause this despair. A part of her acknowledged this. A small part. Perhaps in some kind of remorse, Tira had led the girl, hand in hers, into the castle and tucked her into the makeshift bed, covering her in the blanket and furs that had once sat in a child, for despite everything, that was what she was, cried herself to sleep. Tira had been silent the entire time, confusing her ward; however, she held the girl tightly in her clawed grip as if unwilling to let the child go, in light of this, the girl felt comforted for the first time in years, for her white-haired captor did not show many signs of affection; the child revelled in the moment knowing that such was never likely to happen again.
The lit fireplace crackled, warming the girl wrapped in furs further and providing a source of heat for the other who was dressed in very little to begin with. Tira had removed her clawed gauntlets eventually, deeming them unnecessary for the current moment and fed up of having to wrestle her hands free, and held the girl in her small, delicate hands - unfitting for her choice of trade.
When they both awoke the next morning, the fire having gone out of its own accord, their perspective of one another had been changed. For Pyrrah, a pillar of trust and care had been formed in her mind in the image of Tira, spurning the blonde to do whatever her guardian asked of her; unknowing of the horrors the sickly pale girl had planned.
However, for Tira, this shift in relation with her hostage had sparked a much darker implication. Tira had never had anything of her own, to love nor destroy wholeheartedly, now she did; no one, absolutely no one was going to take that from her.
May it be jealousy on the demon's part or some twisted maternal instinct, Tira had no regrets as she struck down the golden haired warrior of the Gods some time later. Having knocked the sword and shield from the white-clothed woman, the pale girl straddled her waist and held the woman's hands in a painful, clawed grip; all the grins and jollity that had constructed the girl's visage during the fight were gone, all was left was a stoic expression, a lighting spark flash of sanity seemed to appear in the girl's eyes before disappearing, needing to succeed at the task at hand. As the demon's painted lips neared the older woman's, the girl couldn't help herself as she whispered darkly before kissing the woman softly; sapping away her soul in the process. Tira had once mentioned to the former Nightmare that she hoped Sophitia's soul tasted like strawberries, he had scoffed in amusement at her mutterings; upon remembering such a moment, Tira smirked into the kiss, she would have to tell Nightmare when she encountered him again that it was more of a raspberry taste. Unbeknownst to Tira amongst her reminiscing, the Greek woman's eyes widened at both the witch's comment and her life slowly draining away from her, struggling in vain.
The warrior of the Gods had not been granted a merciful death, with only a tiny fraction of her soul left, she was left to die slowly, painfully. Only having enough energy to replay the words of her daughter's captor over and over inside her mind as her last breath slipped away from her.
"She's my daughter now, and I'm her Mother. You'll never take her away from me.~