She had read about the art in books. Seen it on the arms, chests, and backs of sailors and other unsavory sorts in Limsa Lominsa. She had heard that Domans were particularly adept at the art, and searched Mor Dhona for someone who could teach her. Some were forthcoming, for a price. She gave them gil, food, and medicine. They taught her to make the implements she needed. The ink and the needles. She was even able to borrow an heirloom ink stone. They let her sit in and watch the art performed. They even let her try on animal hides. She had the basics down.
It came from an idle thought, but soon became an obsession. It was the only way to free herself from the mask. It was the only way she could reclaim the face that was taken from her.
Iskierka drew the design in face paint first, and looking in the mirror, she brought the tebori needle to her face. It had already been dipped in black ink. She pressed the needle to her skin and rocked it forward and back in a steady rhythm. She felt the pain immediately, but continued on. The pain was part of the point. Transformation should never be comfortable. After so much had been done, she wiped the blood away with a rag.
They had advised her not to do it herself. The idea of lying idly while the process took place made her uncomfortable. It was too much like the act that led her here in the first place. No, she had to do it. Another had taken her face, but she would make a new one for herself. She would finally get to decide how the world saw her. It took her an entire day to do this. She worked tirelessly, breaking only for her bodily needs, and even then she ignored them for as long as possible.
Finally, she was done. She washed her face in a basin kept beside her, and looked at herself in the mirror. The lines were clearly drawn, maybe a few touch ups needed here and there. Her skin was red and stinging in pain as the network of pinpricks bled and scabbed over. For all its bloody crudeness, her face was hers again. She smiled through the pain.
Her Doman hosts were most gracious. They fed her and tended to her wounds from the tattoo process. Her rent for the week was more gil than they had seen since coming to Eorzea. It was odd to Iskierka, who had never been rich by any means, to suddenly be the richest person in the room. She knew the life of a refugee well, but being there made her feel like an interloper.
When her week was done she took the chocobo porter to Camp Dragonhead, and as the chocobo ran, she felt the cold, bitter wind against her new face for the very first time.
It came from an idle thought, but soon became an obsession. It was the only way to free herself from the mask. It was the only way she could reclaim the face that was taken from her.
Iskierka drew the design in face paint first, and looking in the mirror, she brought the tebori needle to her face. It had already been dipped in black ink. She pressed the needle to her skin and rocked it forward and back in a steady rhythm. She felt the pain immediately, but continued on. The pain was part of the point. Transformation should never be comfortable. After so much had been done, she wiped the blood away with a rag.
They had advised her not to do it herself. The idea of lying idly while the process took place made her uncomfortable. It was too much like the act that led her here in the first place. No, she had to do it. Another had taken her face, but she would make a new one for herself. She would finally get to decide how the world saw her. It took her an entire day to do this. She worked tirelessly, breaking only for her bodily needs, and even then she ignored them for as long as possible.
Finally, she was done. She washed her face in a basin kept beside her, and looked at herself in the mirror. The lines were clearly drawn, maybe a few touch ups needed here and there. Her skin was red and stinging in pain as the network of pinpricks bled and scabbed over. For all its bloody crudeness, her face was hers again. She smiled through the pain.
Her Doman hosts were most gracious. They fed her and tended to her wounds from the tattoo process. Her rent for the week was more gil than they had seen since coming to Eorzea. It was odd to Iskierka, who had never been rich by any means, to suddenly be the richest person in the room. She knew the life of a refugee well, but being there made her feel like an interloper.
When her week was done she took the chocobo porter to Camp Dragonhead, and as the chocobo ran, she felt the cold, bitter wind against her new face for the very first time.
![[Image: BZneHYK.jpg]](http://i.imgur.com/BZneHYK.jpg)
No Gods and Precious Few Heroes
