[ WP ] There 's a sign in The Battle Nursery that reads : `` Before leaving your children , please choose some weapons for them '' .

I did n't much like the claymore. Two hands on one weapon, no defense but a full offense. It was n't even really historically accurate. But it's what my parents chose for me. What they left to me. 
 
 I've read their bios. They are both great warriors. Both of them deadly with their chosen weapon, a great sword. I can imagine why they mated each other. All of us, the children of the war, were left to the Battle Nursery. The Empire understood that their warriors needed relief from the pressures of war, and what might come of that. That's why the Nurseries were founded. The warriors and soldiers could find solace in each other, and the children from such unions could be trained to join the ranks once they were old enough. 
 
 Though they could not be there for us, it became custom to leave a gift for their newborn, a weapon, generally one of their own. It was a great honor to take up the blade of your parents, and to finally meet them upon them the field with it in hand was the dream of every war child. 
 
 It was also mine. But it might never be. Some of us? The weapons, the gear given to us, that we were trained with, were just not always our calling. 
 
 It does n't matter though. I'll carry the short sword and shield, I'll train with it, and yes, I'll kill with it. But always will I carry the extra burden. 
 
 A great sword, a claymore. Useless to one such as me. 
 
 The gift from parents I have never seen, a burden I can never really use. They wanted me to use it so that they'll know me. But it's not me, and it never will be. I'll fight harder for it though, so that my name will carry and those who bore me will finally come and recognize me for who I will be. 
 
 Strong. Soldier. Warrior. 
 
 Daughter.
