Combat, the word slithered in the air. Since birth there had been nothing but fight in her and in her life. Against her will she had battled her brother as they were set like pawns against one another; the beauty versus the beast. Even she knew that losing was the only result she could ever hope to obtain in the desert. In desperation she could have hurt the golden child, but he had their mother and her lovers and their siblings and their half-siblings and sometimes it seemed like the desert itself bent to her will. It left a bitterness on her tongue, acrid and sulfurous.Survival was the only life she knew and with it came fights. She had to hunt for her own food for it had never been given to her without great cost. She had to find her own water for she was not lead there with kindness. It was no surprise then that even now in the swamp she struggled. Other kin had family and friends; she did not understand what or how such relations occurred. She had been born and rejected, kept for entertainment and laughter. It made her feral, comparatively.
The acha looked at the wooden kin, confusion painting her face. Was this how others learned to fight? In pairs, the kin took turns and she scowled. What kind of ridiculousness was that? There was no fairness, no such thing as turns in battle! She looked back at the wooden kin, walked up to it and wondered.
It would not recoil from bites. It could feel nothing. So what was the point? Was not fighting about pain and victory?
Appetite hissed, closed her eyes, and attempted to kick at the silly target.