[center][b][color=#DF7401][h1]زهرا - Zahra[/h1][/color][/b]
[center][img]http://img11.deviantart.net/866f/i/2014/161/c/b/nomads__sketch__by_burenerdene-d7lsi1c.jpg[/img][/center]

[h3][b][color=#DF7401]برای تمام زمان قلبهای ما برای او تنگ شده است. او از دست داده است[/color][/b][/h3][/center]


The cacophony of battle was all around her, deafening in its presence yet fading in uneven rhythms. The sharp clash of weapon upon weapon, upon shield, upon armor, and upon flesh sang its song loudest in Zahra’s unhearing ears. Shouts and lamentations danced desperately among the desert air currents; dervishes swirling in a chaotic rush among the dead and dying, and seeking salvation from the gods as their lights were washed away with the rising of the suns. The sands of their forefathers shifted with the pounding of her people’s feet cascading around her; begging her body, unmoving, to rise and reclaim the honor of those that came before. The first rays of the harsh desert light pricked viciously at eyes already unseeing; beckoning them to gaze upon the fruition of all that her vengeance and strength had wrought. Blood burbled slowly into across her tongue and into the sands; her body offering itself to be consumed in the withering fire of her magic, but no longer did her life-blood possess any remnants of the empowering tang of her element. Finally, the stench of death forced its way into her nostrils; threatening her into action against her own impending demise, but she had already deadened herself to the pungent miasma of decaying life.

The world continued on unrelenting around her and all she could do was fade away. Her body had curled into itself as she had fallen, and now she lay wrapped around the core where her power laid. It was a vain attempt to protect the flickering, quivering flame of her magic from the raging tempest around her. She could only hope that her people would prevail without any further guidance from her, and that maybe after all of this war they’d finally be at peace. That finally [i]she[/i] could be at peace as well. 

The woman watched with her inner eye as her fire licked slowly and fleetingly at the last residue of power she possessed. It was so reminiscent. Like the countless times she’d held nightwatch over the camp as a young warrior, sitting near the light of the cooking fires and watching the flames wither away. Surrounded by her people, but utterly alone. It was a dissonance she’d always found comforting in life, and she couldn’t help but feel something akin to that as she slipped into death. Slowly she felt the emotions that had carried her through so much drain away with the rest of her.

There was no more anger. No more hatred. No more wrath. No sadness, or pain… Regret. Joy. Pride. Strength. Hope. Nothing.

Then, there was simply no more Zahra. 


[center][h3][b][color=#DF7401]روی شنهای که در آن او خون ریخت، دوباره قهرمان خودش را پیدا میکند[/color][/b][/h3][/center]

[center][b][i]POP![/I][/b]

[i]GASP![/I][/center]
Pain exploded out from the center of her being, and a pulse with the heat of a thousand infernos shot through every sinew of her body with ruthless abandon, awaking sensations she could never remember feeling and wracking her body in convulsions of power both frighteningly alien and undeniably her own. She continued to seize for several minutes as the torrents of wanton energy ripped through her. Only when she feared that she would be torn asunder again did the energy finally ebb from her body. Her mind quieted as her body did, and rasping breaths was all she could seem to manage at the moment.

Only once in her life had she experienced such a thing, though this time it was compounded ten fold: her breaking. But that was impossible. Allomancers didn’t break more than once. No, it didn’t make sense. Except, wasn’t she dead? There was no way that she could have survived that final battle. Nobody of the tribes possessed any kind of magic that could stop her inevitable fall into nothingness. [i]She[/i] certainly didn’t heal herself either, not with so grievous of wounds. She didn’t understand.

Zahra fluttered her eyes open once again to the world of the living, taking in the dusty light that filtered through the small openings in the confines in which she found herself, and the shaft of light that shone intensely at the end opposite of where she lay. The warrior turned her head slowly to the side where a skeletal corpse wrapped in the remains of a silken burial shroud had been gently placed on a slab beside her. She sat up with a start, her gaze sweeping across the room where more dead lay similarly in rows before and beside her.

A tomb... Her tomb? She blinked hard as if readjusting her sight might adjust her situation, but no such mercy was forthcoming. Her daughters. Tradition dictated that only the spouse and children could be laid to rest beside the one that was deemed worthy of a tomb. Her daughters lay beside her, and the next five generations of their kin lay before them all, as was appropriate. Zahra felt as though she should mourn the loss of her children, but found herself unable to with the realization that they had lived a life enough to have children, and those children had had children, and so on. And a line of warriors, if the array of weapons resting at the feet of many of the dead was any indication.

The Iron-Toothed pushed herself onto her bare feet to take tentative steps around the crypt to view those who have been her legacy. Her steps became more steady as her body found its equilibrium in world again, and the flame in her center tempered into a steady blaze. Why she was alive again she could not begin to fathom, but it was a gift of the Gods for sure. 

Only after Zahra had made her rounds through the fourth generation of her kin did she notice the gaggle of silk-covered faces peering cautiously through the large opening she’d been slowing making her way towards. It was disconcerting to see other living souls after being among the dead after forefathers-knew-how-long, so for a long moment she didn’t speak and they interlopers seemed content to continue staring.

Finally she followed their eyes to her naked middle and found what had trapped their gazes. Zahra’s hands fluttered to her stomach to run fingers over the vicious scar that puckered and distorted the skin there; the blow that ended her. She felt no physical pain or hinderance from it, but couldn’t help but be a little discomforted. A reminder of her own mortality? Or of her self-sacrifice?


One brave soul threw Zahra out of her contemplation by approaching cautiously with a robe similar in which all the group wore, held open in and waiting for permission to wrap her within. Zahra nodded slightly in acquiescence, allowing the older -or she supposed younger, as it were- woman to engulf her in the silk and lead her with a gentle hand led her to the group that was making quick haste to create her a path in which to walk through them to the outside world. She stepped out into the full light of the desert suns in the midst of a small village of stone and metal building built in same architectural style as the one in which she emerged. 

The people alternated between gaping at this unknown woman emerging from what had been the sealed tomb of one of their most famous heroes, to the twisted and warped metal chunk that may have once resembled a door. 

“Welcome home, Zahra the Iron-Toothed Lioness,” the old woman said softly as Zahra’s bare feet sank into the desert sands bathed in crimson.


[center][h3][b][color=#DF7401]او بیدار شد[/color][/b][/h3][/center]