[center][h3]Aymiria Unalim[/h3] [sub]Interacting with Zakroti [@darkwolf687] and Keregar [@legion02][/sub][/center] Miry froze in terror as the looming warlord lumbered towards them, issuing a challenge to her husband. Chancing a look up at Zak's face, the murderous light that filled them, she had a vivid, terrible thought of the street being turned to a bloodbath. But for the moment, though the blackguard drew their weapons and fell into a defensive form about them, Zak seemed happy to talk, if a little bit eager to go for his own sword. He sneered up at the much larger Drakkan, and in spite of everything that had transpired, every bit of anger and hurt and betrayal- Miry was afraid for him. Guards or not, it was entirely possible there would be an injury, or a death here. Her hands balled into fists, water streaming from nearby planters on the street to coil up around her ankles, swirling up under her gown and eventually around her wrists and hands and freezing into gauntlets, small claws of ice spiraling up between her fingers. She was careful to keep her hands hidden inside her sleeves, of course, her eyes demurely on the ground. She shifted slightly to be standing mostly behind Zak, well out of his way should he suddenly move to strike, and clear of Vain's sword as well. [hr][hr] [center][h3]Nenra Corislen[/h3] [sub]interacting with no one [/sub][/center] The night had been a sleepless one of burning unshed tears and tension in her chest and face. She had not gotten a wink of sleep, and felt it acutely upon dragging herself out of the bed to her door nearly being shaken off its hinges. Her eyes were leaden, somehow even more unfocused than before, and she barely managed to keep herself upright for long enough to get a plate to fill with the dry, horrible meats they were feeding them. She mechanically plopped into a seat, obediently putting the food in her mouth (as unhungry as she had been the last few days, she knew she needed nourishment) and scarcely tasting it as she chewed. The white haired girl sat beside her, and said something - after quite a few minutes of silence, feeling like her head was filled with lead and cotton - she realized it had been questions directed at her. She peered around, but - there was a vague commotion, and the other girls being led from the room. She froze, confused, and was promptly shaken to her senses by a brute of a guard, who dragged her to her feet and along after the other girls, telling her exactly nothing. Had she missed something? She was shoved roughly into the end of the line, her head filled with the others babbling about hope and how eager they were for the warm baths... ...what? Descending into the steamy caves, pools of warm water everywhere, most of the girls were eager to cast their towels aside, easing aching bodies into the water. Nenra hesitated, wandering around, finally finding a pool tucked as far away from the others as she could. Self-consciously she unwound her towel, slipping into the hot water while still holding it up, trying to hide behind it and conceal her blemished features, feeling very much a lump of granite among glittering gemstones. She, though lacking in the hideous pockmarks that had scarred her sisters and cousins, had nonetheless acquired more than her fair share of small scars and blemishes from her work in the fields and struggles to tame her element - her hands and feet calloused and tough, tiny oft-reopened scratches along the length of her arms, raised pinpoints from the thorns of the rosebushes she'd been tasked to tend. She was ordinarily not mad at them, nor at the faint sprinkling of freckles scattered across her collarbones and scarcely visible across her cheekbones- it made her proud, that she'd lived and [i]lived[/i] rather than just existing in this body. But today, surrounded by all these beautiful (and mostly shameless) women, she felt so dirty and unworthy. She eased into the water, scrunching down into the shallow pool, curling into a ball and leaning back so that she was resting on her back and all but her face and the tops of her knees were under the water. The lapping against her ears was rhythmic and oddly soothing, drowning out the goodnatured chatter and even quiet giggling that echoed around the room. Her eyes drifted shut. It felt like she'd only been there for a few seconds when she was shaken out of her stupor, and with a yelp she tried to cover herself - but it was another of the brides, the pretty scarlet-haired doe-eyed one from the carriage. "Get up, didn't you hear? We're leaving." She hauled on Nenra's arm, helping the (...altogether too floppy, Nen realized) girl to get her feet under her. The other girl reached over her towel and thrust it at her, looking fearfully over her shoulder at the lumbering guardsmen who approached. As they scrambled out of the pool, narrowly missing a beating, Nenra caught her foot on a rock and stumbled, striking her knees and falling to the floor, her feet tangling briefly with the bigger of the two Drakkan guards as she instinctively struggled to stand. She yelped, the breath knocked out of her, and the guard growled. As his partner led the pretty one away, he swiftly meted out justice- two swift kicks to her ribcage and abdomen, snatching her towel away from her and dragging her up by her hair. "Watch where you're going." He hissed, shoving her ahead of him, his fingers on her shoulder in a death grip so tight she was certain her collarbones would crack. She scarcely processed being half shoved, half dragged back to the castle, pushed into her room and left to dress. The boots she had been given were just too small for her feet, and pinchy at best - the gown itself was gorgeous, and she loathed to put it on. But they had confiscated the worn homespun dress she had brought here, and short of going to meet her new husband nude, she had to comply. The dress fit her too well, with extra padding stitched in at all the appropriate womanly places. Nenra had never developed such features really, though it was not as though food had been scarce as many girls of her shape claimed. She just came from a long line of very angular, spindly women. The gown itself was simple, a burnt orange gown so dark it was almost black, tiny embroideries of copper and gold outlining the neck and sleeves and lending a sparkle to the otherwise exceptionally plain ensemble. She haphazardly combed her hair flat with the provided utensil, tugging through the tangles indiscriminately (and leaving a sizeable portion of her already wisp-thin brunette locks on the floor). She elected to carry the boots, keeping her bare feet in contact with the reassuring earth as she stepped outside her room, joining the line of girls being loaded into carriages. [hr][hr] [center][h3]Scyrven Gunnvaldr[/h3] [sub]Interacting with Gwillim [@tracyarmav][/sub][/center] Scyrven's heartbeat matched that of the drums. Loud, rhythmic, pulsing, every beat filling her with fire. As the previous combatant brushed past through the ready-room, she leaned against her mate's side, rising up to gently place a kiss on his cheek (tilting her head to make certain her curling horns did not prick his skin) before sliding her helm into place in a clearly oft-practiced maneuver. With a sly glance at her mate, she reached into a pocket inside her chestplate, producing a stone carved into a pyramidal shape. Each of the four corners was painted with a different color. Each signified a different weapon she could use. White, her sword and shield. Green, her glaive. Red, throwing weapons. Black - nothing. Only her elements. She tossed the die onto the table, smirking as it landed green side up. Good. She had wanted an excuse to use the polearm in combat. The challenge her husband had offered at home caught her attention once more. Though her smile was not visible behind her helm of nightmares, she broke out into a grin, affording him a final half-bow before taking her glaive with a flourish and stalking onto the battlefield. The sight of her opponent made her blood run with fire. A warlord several inches shorter than her, but in every facet of his posture as conniving and cruel as most runts had to be to make their way here. His left horn was chipped, splintered short at about half its length, and his grin was lopsided to match, his icy eyes sizing her up and so clearly internally removing her armor. Lysander Karstagg. She had heard tales of this man and his dynasty's cruelty. Taking brides just to set them free into the swamps of his holdings, setting his hounds on them whenever they thought they would be free. He would save them once they were taken down, of course, he wouldn't have them killed before he had his fun. And he would, systematically breaking every girl he was given, casting them aside like broken playthings if they failed to give him offspring. He had tossed away his second bride, when she presented him a sickly son who soon expired, given her off to his soldiers to do with as they pleased and then cast her dead into the street. Oh, her blood boiled as he saluted the crowd, pulling a flashy trick with his wicked twin swords. He wore no helm and little in the way of armor, in contrast to her own self, clad in steel-reinforced hardened leather, her scale mail tunic, and solid helm. As the gaze of the masses settled on her, she swung her glaive up over her head, twirling it effortlessly and catching it after two quick twirls, planting the butt of it into the dirt floor and offering a flourishing bow to the royals' booth. The ends of her russet hair peeked out from under her helm. They approached the circle drawn in the soft earth floor, and Karstagg inclined his head to her. "Lady Scyrvensral. It is an honor to duel you once more." He spoke slowly, his words dripping poison. "If I am to best you in combat today, I will thoroughly enjoy plowing your face into your husband's bed as I take you tonight." The words carried around the room, and the drumbeat faltered to the raucous hooting that filled the amphitheater. Scyrven's heart leapt into her throat. He remembered. When she was a lass of merely forty, and he so much more experienced at nearly seventy, he had challenged her to a duel in her father's court, and she had lost. Badly. It was a lighthearted duel, but even still - he had wanted to take her then, after her defeat, and only her father's intervention protected her. But she had been young then, and inexperienced, and now she had the advantage in both stature and in weapon reach. His brutality was unparalleled, but... perhaps it was a more even match now. She swung her glaive around herself once, clearing her head as she stirred the muggy air. She stood the weapon firmly into the ground, the blade extending into the air well above her head. A grin crossed her face, hidden inside her helmet, as she thought of the perfect retort. "My lord Lysander... it is never a good idea to challenge a woman who has a longer shaft than you, now is it?" He [i]snarled[/i], lunging at her well before the command was given for the fight to commence. She was bracing for it and swung her glaive up, taking the first crude overhand blow in the steel-filled-hardwood shaft of the weapon. He was good at flashy, yes, but it was a carefully calculated flashy. He was a little brute, attacking with his heart and not his head. From there the fight progressed in a blur. Scyrven took especial delight in twirling about him, adding just a bit of flair to every strike of her blade. The little lordling was fast, but she'd succeeded in clouding his mind. His strikes were not hitting true - and she was glad of it. Had he been on his game she was certain there would have been several times where he could have impaled her, but as it was there would be only bruising under her armor. A few times he caught her glaive against his sword, causing her to wince as the blade was likely dinged, but he - with his arrogant refusal of armor - was sporting several bleeding, shallow cuts. The fight dragged on for several minutes, both combatants visibly tiring. Scyrven knew she had to end the fight soon - while her stamina was good, carefully honed over a century to be good, the little lordlet seemed to be faring somewhat better than she. So she pulled a move of questionable fairness. Spinning away from him, carried in part by the mass of her weapon, she took a knee hard in the dirt, swinging her blade around (blunt side first) towards the sides of his ankles. He realized too late, jumping awkwardly, the blade still clipping the side of his boot. Knowing he would land off-balance she spun her glaive quickly, whipping it around vertically and lunging forward, jamming the iron-reinforced butt of the weapon into the center of Karstagg's exposed chest, taking him off his feet with an audible snapping of bone. Before he could try to recover Scyrven lunged to her feet, standing over him, her glaive's slightly curved blade leveled at his throat. She took some sadistic pleasure in pressing one metal-toed boot down into his groin, pressing some of her weight down, feeling his cheap codpiece crumple under her weight and a faint groan of pain escape the man. The blood rushed in her ears, preventing her from hearing the crowd's reaction. After applying a bit more pressure against Karstagg's groin - simply for her own joy more than anything - she swung her glaive up to the ready, saluted the royals, and stalked back to the prep room, freeing her face and mane from the helm as she did. Upon returning to the room she faced Gwillim, placing her glaive against the wall and her helm on the tabletop, leaning up to throw her arms around his neck (mostly for show, gods knew how much attention the other competitors were paying.) she purred something unintelligible out, pressing her body tight against his, hoping for the proximity to him to ground her.