Monifa Oya
Aeraesar
- Messages
- 2
- Character Biography
- Link
The dawn light filtered through woven awnings and sandstone arches, painting warm gold over the outer districts of Lazular. Grain carts rumbled past stone courtyards, the scent of dates and dust already thick in the air. Beneath the low call of morning traders, a single sharp cry cut through: a newborn’s first breath.
Monifa Oya knelt beside a woman soaked in sweat and triumph, inside a narrow home with prayer markings etched into its lintel. Calm and steady, Monifa cleaned her hands in silence, her dark fingers stained with blood, her eyes unreadable. A bronze medallion with spiral etchings hung at her chest, worn smooth by time, a quiet badge of her long service.
“Strong cry. She’ll live,” Monifa said simply, handing the child to her mother. “You did well.”
At her side, a younger apprentice fumbled with clean linens and murmured thanks. Monifa gave only a nod and stood, joints creaking faintly from years of kneeling. Her linen scarf had been tugged loose, revealing strands of silver in her tightly braided hair. The indigo sash tied at her waist marked her as a near-elder midwife, a rank earned only by decades of trusted service and survival.
Outside, she sat beneath the awning and unwrapped her tools one by one: carved bone instruments, a vial of umbilical ash, bundles of dried herbs bound in sinew. The routine was familiar, grounding. Necessary.
A few neighbors passed by, offering respectful nods. None lingered long.
Monifa said little. She never did. Those who worked with her knew her as capable, quiet, and deeply rooted in the rhythms of life and death. The kind of midwife who didn’t flinch from blood, who returned after a long day.
Monifa Oya knelt beside a woman soaked in sweat and triumph, inside a narrow home with prayer markings etched into its lintel. Calm and steady, Monifa cleaned her hands in silence, her dark fingers stained with blood, her eyes unreadable. A bronze medallion with spiral etchings hung at her chest, worn smooth by time, a quiet badge of her long service.
“Strong cry. She’ll live,” Monifa said simply, handing the child to her mother. “You did well.”
At her side, a younger apprentice fumbled with clean linens and murmured thanks. Monifa gave only a nod and stood, joints creaking faintly from years of kneeling. Her linen scarf had been tugged loose, revealing strands of silver in her tightly braided hair. The indigo sash tied at her waist marked her as a near-elder midwife, a rank earned only by decades of trusted service and survival.
Outside, she sat beneath the awning and unwrapped her tools one by one: carved bone instruments, a vial of umbilical ash, bundles of dried herbs bound in sinew. The routine was familiar, grounding. Necessary.
A few neighbors passed by, offering respectful nods. None lingered long.
Monifa said little. She never did. Those who worked with her knew her as capable, quiet, and deeply rooted in the rhythms of life and death. The kind of midwife who didn’t flinch from blood, who returned after a long day.