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Every battle scar told a story of victory for Striga. Though there were few that decorated her body, Striga wore them proudly. It served as a reminder that even after so many centuries of living as the undead, she could still feel alive.
Though the scars did not mean much to Striga, it always roused the emotions and wandering eyes of her wife. Bless her heart, Striga adored Morana’s attention and didn’t try to resist her first aid efforts lest she wanted to see more of her fretting.
“Always fretting, aren’t you?”, Striga teased after one training session. Morana scoffed before responding. “Maybe I wouldn’t fret as much if you were more careful during training”, her voice trailing off in an “I-told-you so” manner.
“Well, I can assure you, I hope it won’t be the last time your hands are on me.” Morana only gave her famous exasperated expression that Striga adored after all these centuries. “Must you be this crude?? Mind you, I still have the bandages for your wounds.”
Striga just cocked her eyebrow as she held on to her wife’s perfectly fitting hand. “Good, because I only wanted someone with your expertise to put your hands on me.”