Good luck everybody! I'm looking forward to this! [hider=Reyna Stromfleur][INDENT][INDENT][CENTER][h3][b][i][color=f26522]R E Y N A S T R O M F L E U R[/color][/i][/b][/h3][hr][sub][i]"That one. Her. The short one with the red hair. Who is she?" "She doesn't speak much, my liege, but the orcs call her Reyna." "Good. Good. I like that one. Buy her from them and don't take no for an answer. Have them killed if you must. I want her sent to my chambers tomorrow." -- conversation between Emperor Thules the Gibbering and Hierem, the day before the slave revolt. [/i][/sub][/CENTER] [table][row][/row][row][cell][center][sub][b][color=f26522]══════ C H A R A C T E R P O R T R A I T ══════[/color][/b][/sub] [sup]_______________________________________________[/sup][img]https://i.pinimg.com/564x/e8/ee/8d/e8ee8d67bb76a671cfae8dcf90552ba8.jpg[/img] [sup]_______________________________________________[/sup] [suP][b][color=f26522]═══════ C H A R A C T E R S U M M A R Y ══════[/color][/b][/suP] [sub][url=https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7JYu9CXpFUZksK3tyZZHUz?si=a58d18bf1ca04c91]Reyna Stromfleur[/url] [sup]_______________________________________________[/sup] [color=807B84]18 [b]|[/b] She / Her [b]|[/b] Nord / Breton[/color] [sup]_______________________________________________[/sup] [color=807B84]Gladiator[/color][/sub][/center] [indent][sub][b][color=f26522]▼ P H Y S I C A L T R A I T S[/color][/b][/SUB] [sup]▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ [color=807B84]► [b]Build[/b] - Short, stocky, and wiry. ► [b]Skin Color[/b] - Fair, but sun-kissed. ► [b]Hair Color[/b] - Reddish ginger. ► [b]Eye Color[/b] - Amber. ► [b]Other[/b] - Numerous small scars from cuts, scrapes, scratches, and bites.[/color][/SUP] [SUB][b][color=f26522]▼ D O S S I E R[/color][/b][/sub] [sup]▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ [color=807B84]► [b]Birthplace[/b] - Jehanna, High Rock. ► [b]Birthsign[/b] - The Warrior. ► [b]Biggest Regret[/b] - Could she have escaped sooner? Could she have avoided all of that hardship from the beginning? Or could she have ended it herself? There's otherwise little room for regret in her life when all she was trying to do is survive. ► [b]Reyna's Goal[/b] - She feels indebted to Isobel Aurelia and wishes to help her further her goals, as well as seeking revenge against her orc slavers and those in charge of running the Imperial Arena.[/color] [/SUP][/indent] [indent][sub][b][color=f26522]▼ F A V O R E D A T T R I B U T E S[/color][/b][/sub] [sup]▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ [color=807B84]► [abbr=Reyna is small compared to her usual opponents, so she had to learn how to rely not on overpowering them but on maneuvering through and blitzing past their defenses, using her smaller size to her advantage.][b]Major Speed[/b][/abbr] ► [abbr=She's had to survive rather awful conditions for many years as well as the hordes of beasts and gladiators her captors would pit her against. She can endure a rather impressive beating for her size and the beatings she dishes back in return are as well, hiding impressive and unrestrained power in her smaller frame.][b]Minor Strength[/b][/abbr][/color][/sup] [SUB][b][color=f26522]▼ S K I L L S[/color][/b][/sub] [sup]▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ [color=807B84]► [b]Athletics[/b] - [abbr=Her body's been trained for an athletic sport almost every day for five years. Though she specializes in sudden and explosive bursts of strength and speed, she has reached a masterful control of her own body and proves herself time after time that she is first and foremost an athlete.]Expert[/abbr] ► [b]One-Handed[/b] - [abbr=She prefers light weight of a shortsword or gladius, but living with orcs has made her plenty proficient with axes and maces, and her skill with a shortsword translates well to the heavier longswords. She lacks the training of professional swordsmanship, but her killer instinct, brutality, ferocity, and unorthodox style has enabled her to trump all of her enemies thus far.]Adept[/abbr] ► [b]Block[/b] - [abbr=If you prefer light weapons, you need a shield. If you've got one open hand, you might as well use it to block incoming attacks and not die. It's just common sense. Behind her trusty bulwark, she knows no fear.]Adept[/abbr] ► [b]Medium Armor[/b] - [abbr=When making a compromise between the weight of lightweight armor to remain mobile but the protection of heavy steel, you opt for a breastplate, some gauntlets and some boots. Reyna's armor differs slightly from this configuration but it protects her vital organs without inhibiting her range of motion.]Adept[/abbr] ► [b]Light Armor[/b] - [abbr=Her preference is in medium armor, but her roots are in light armor having started this life in rags and leathers. She can easily fall back on light armor if its necessary and utilize the mobility it grants her, but she's become accustomed to relying on her armor to take some of the hits for her while light armor has a much wider margin for error.]Apprentice[/abbr] ► [b]Spear[/b] - [abbr=The spear is the traditional weapon of the Legion and a staple of any warrior culture. Long, reliable, easy to make and use -- perhaps the only reason Reyna did not rely on this so much is because orcs and animals always like to close the distance. Spears are harder to utilize in close-quarters, especially with her level of strength when also holding a shield.]Apprentice[/abbr] ► [b]Hand-to-hand[/b] - [abbr=Fighting hand-to-hand is not ideal, and a weapon will win out the majority of the time, but you won't always have a weapon. Reyna recognizes this and has learned how to leverage her superior athletics in utilizing her lower center of gravity and entire body's musculature to knock people over, grapple them, lock their joints, and rip them out from their sockets if necessary.]Apprentice[/abbr][/color][/SUP] [SUB][b][color=f26522]▼ S P E L L S[/color][/b][/sub] [sup]▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ [color=807B84]► Spell? Spell what? You're making fun of me because I can't read, are you?[/color][/sup] [SUB][b][color=f26522]▼ E Q U I P M E N T[/color][/b][/sub] [sup]▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ [color=807B84]► [b]Weapons[/b] - An Imperial gladius. She also looted an orichalum dagger from one of her orc masters during the jailbreak. ► [b]Armor[/b] - Brass-coated steel breastplate with a left pauldron and other armor pieces on her left arm, shin guards, and a hardened round wood aspis with a metal sheet over the front. ► [b]Containers[/b] - A 32 oz. waterskin and a small pouch on her right side. ► [b]Food, Drink, Potions[/b] - Venison jerky, nuts, and roots. ► [b]Miscellaneous[/b] Reyna is noticeably void of many possession aside from what she can carry on her immediate person. [/color][/sup][/indent][hr] [/cell][cell][center][b][sub][color=f26522]══════ A P P E A R A N C E ══════[/color][/sub][/b][/center] She's like the lapping tongue of a kindled flame, a stray spark, or the moment when a lone and flittering petal like crimson saxifrage from a spattering plume of blood scatters across the sand. She's small, short, and has a wild mass of short and unevenly cut red hair, as if cut with a sword or dagger, and is full of boundless and anxious energy. In the arena in which she made her home, with her unassuming stature and blistering agility, it is easy to mistake the top of her head from the stands for one of the larger drops and petals of spraying gore in the light of the hot, orange summer sun. It is under this blazing sun where Reyna's dirtied skin has bronzed in defiance of her Nord heritage, taking on the hue of the parched sands that never seems to drink its fill of blood. There are many streaks of color on her skin from scarring; some scars have darkened while some seem to have lost their pigment. Her face is heart-shaped, but the sharpness and width of her jawline seem as though they're constantly clenched in nervous anticipation. The thousand yard stare in her amber eyes seem to have been stuck there for a thousand years, and the dilation of her pupils appear to be a fixed feature, as though always prepared for danger around the corner. Reyna's size is probably her most significant disadvantage as well as one of her greatest strengths. She's stands only at a meager 5'1" and weighs maybe 135 lbs. at most, which is rather impressive anyways because despite having a shorter stature, she's built like a wild animal with wiry muscle and, not exactly being fed the best diet in the world by her captors (usually claiming whatever scraps she could get with ravenous hunger), has very little body fat to pad her out and making her limbs feel rock solid. The way she moves is reminiscent of a cornered animal or, depending on the circumstance, like a predator on the hunt. Each step is usually measured and intentional, as if the floor could give out from under her at a moment's notice. So though the peak of her strength is limited by her size, it is her size and reactionary disposition that allows her to move swiftly and nimbly, get into places others couldn't, and leverage her lower center of gravity. Her voice too, like her steps, is carefully measured as if to avoid offense, but the scowl on her face betrays the more callous purpose of biding her time for an opening. There's a raspy hoarseness to her voice that is hard to tell if it comes from a lack of use or not, but it sounds vaguely familiar to orcish accents. A life such as hers does not lend itself to an extensive wardrobe beyond her arming garments. She's noticeably lacking in any kind of accessories, and back in the Wrothgarian mountains, her attire and armor was mostly leather and piece-meal, but as she was shown off in the Imperial City arena and became a favorite, they were more willing to splurge a bit to make her appeal more to the general aesthetic of Imperial life. Her primary garments are black quilted linen; shorts that only run about halfway down her thighs and are sleeveless, a small reprieve for the northern girl in the much warmer Cyrodiilic climate. She also has a bundle of red fabric that is meant to serve something akin to a toga, though it reaches the same approximate length of her shorts. The toga hangs off of one shoulder, and one side is slightly longer, which she uses to wrap around her left arm to serve as a cushion between her bare skin and the armor she wears for her sword hand while her unarmored arm holds her shield, keeping her reasonably protected and nimble even despite the arena masters' taste for fashion at the expense of practicality. She wears sandals on her feet that are strapped into plated shin guards. The armor running down her left arm to her gauntlet is the same as her breast plate: heat-treated steel but coated in a brass lacquer meant to appeal to Imperial tastes, because apparently it isn't enough to die and bleed for their entertainment if you don't look good doing it. The most of what she carries for utility is a leather belt frog that holds the wooden sheath for her sword and carries her pouches. There is a peculiar function on her gauntlet just below the center of her forearm where there's a short bladed hook jutting out, and in the concave groove of the hook, there's an embedded piece of flint that Reyna can drag her blade across and release a shower of sparks for a flashier display in the arena. As an inadvertent function of flint, Reyna can use it to also sharpen her blades, or use it to lock her blade if she has it to an opponent's neck. It's a bit impractical though considering it's on her sword arm. [center][b][sub][color=f26522]═══════ P E R S O N A L I T Y ══════[/color][/sub][/b][/center] If there has been frequent mention of her likeness to wild or feral creatures, that is because it is not far from the truth. Wild animals are primed for survival; to hunt and forage and defend themselves, because otherwise, they will suffer or even die. When the body and mind are young and learning, and your experiences inform your psyche that the world is bad, frightening, terrible, and dangerous, it does what it can to prepare you for the dangers and trials ahead. So in lacking the healthy development of things such as trust, temper management, or the ability to focus for extended periods of time gives the appearance of a feral child, a creature always dividing its attention between different sources of stimuli and suspiciously trying to assess the threats around them. It also hints to others a predilection for violent and unpredictable behavior, a disposition which radiates from her if you're paying attention, but often conflicts with most people's presuppositions regarding Reyna given her status as a young woman who is barely even a child anymore, and it fabricates an unnerving dissonance in how one should consider approaching her. She rarely responds when spoken to, and most requests or demands are met with a scowling stare as she watches your hands and body to see if you respond poorly to not getting what you asked of her, who is wholly and stubbornly unwilling to perform for others if the other is not willing to take action themselves.[/cell][/row][/table][/indent][/indent] At her heart, her very core, she's a survivor. She's been a survivor since a very young age, and maybe she isn't a survivor in the sense that you could throw her out into the wilderness for a week and expect her to know how to forage for food, but in the sense that she'll make the effort to survive regardless of her knowledge base and in spite of the circumstances. It is as if she holds a deep seated resentment towards death that, despite of all the hardships in her life, there's something that keeps driving her to live, whether its simple instinct or something deeper and philosophical. It may be going too far to say that her survivorship is driven by confidence, because there are definitely some trauma and anxiety ingrained into her psyche, but she at least faces challenges and obstacles with [i]certainty[/i]; an awareness that although this trial, whatever or whoever it may be, has stepped its way into her path and although today may finally be the day that kills her, she will at least fight it secure in the knowledge that she has survived more than two thousand days that tried to kill her too. She is not totally devoid of development or completely ignorant of what it means to exist in civilization, though. There have been a little more than twelve entire years previous to her current life where she lived knowing little of hardship beyond the toil of working farmland and herding little goats and sheep. Of course, life as a farm child in the cold countryside does not make for an educated child, but it does mean she is aware of a life outside of conflict, of a loving family, and of civility--but it is because all of this ended at such a young age, she may not be entirely aware of how social dynamics change with her age, making her come across as younger than she is if she's expecting civil life to be the same as it was when she was twelve or thirteen. Complicate this dynamic further with the influence and conditioning of slave life in an independent orcish tribe's stronghold, and you begin to realize her ability to adjust to different cultures is hampered. Living so long in a place where strength and toughness reigned supreme, her bluntness, callousness, bravado, and cruelty relative to the culture of a cushy Nibenese or Wayrest native can be very jarring, especially when combined with a child's entitlement and expectation for praise or affection. Treating her as just a child however can be fatal, despite the kind of treatment she seems to angle for. The way you'd typically treat a child are often times the same cues to her that indicate dangers and threats. Whether you're licking your thumb to clean the smudge of dirt off her cheek, ruffling her hair, bending over to talk to her, pitching your voice -- all these things and more, consider what it might mean to her. Your hand is reaching for her face, her head -- a threat. Crouching or bending over, like entering a readying position or like you're reaching for her. Pitching your voice, like a taunt inviting attack, as gladiators are prone to do in their arenas to get you to drop your guard or lose your patience. When for so many years a split second can mean the difference between getting injured or killed, her reaction time is like lightning, and she may not even know what's happening or what she's doing until after its done. Those who are simply sympathetic to children and might simply wish the best for her or look out for her best interests must still remember that she is a ferocious and brutal killer and that some animals, though cute, are still wild, run on instinct, and wield dangerous claws and teeth. This is not all to say that she is without her qualities. If you respect strength, bravery, and heart, then you'll respect Reyna--she's unflinching in the face of danger. If you admire humility, devotion, and honesty, you'll admire her and how deeply she's committed herself to Isobel and how she's never once been seduced by the allure of glory in the arena. She's accidentally honest, not really knowing any better to lie to others about problems and issues she may not recognize as problems and issues, and the only kind of deception she thinks to use is on the battlefield. If you value freedom, you'll find in her a steadfast comrade-in-arms. Even some of the orcs' positive traits have rubbed off on her, having been raised in their culture for all of her adolescence and identity forming period. She seems to value honor and strength, talks quite a bit like an orc tribal, and uses their phrases and terminology quite a bit. However, unlike them, there is something of a sympathetic streak in her (although she has long suppressed it in the face of the grim "its me or them" conundrum she's always faced with). Now that she's a fish in a much bigger pond with more room to grow and develop, with more resources around her than she's had for a long time, there's opportunity for an innate generosity to emerge. This may manifest in giving away food or money, firewood, and luxuries that she has already learned to live without, or fighting a battle that is not her own on behalf of someone else. There's a slight cognitive dissonance presence in her mind between her long-standing nature to seek survival and avoiding danger, but with danger present with her for so long, she paradoxically seems uncomfortable in its absence, either not trusting the silence or not knowing how to operate within it. Sometimes she still jumps awake suddenly at night in a panic simply because she's been asleep for [i]too long[/i] and immediately expects danger to jump at her as soon as her eyes open. So she continues to fight, and if doing what she's good at and sharing her strength with others spares them from the nightmares, night terrors, and cold sweats, then that has to be a good thing, right? She's a good person... right? [center][b][sub][color=f26522]═══════ B A C K G R O U N D ══════[/color][/sub][/b][/center] Born in the northeastern-most region of High Rock, the kingdom of Jehanna was notable for its combined population of both nords and brains, which is where Reyna’s blood comes from. Her mother, a Nord, and her father, the Breton, found each other and planted their roots in a small settlement in the outskirts of the kingdom where they would eventually come to bear a child and with the land in view of the saxifrage fields at the base of the mountains. It was a beautiful home of course, and after a little more than a dozen years, they had an impressive farm and kept their flocks of sheep and goats during the winter months, and their little girl would help them tame the tough, wild land. Unfortunately, there are some challenges of selling so far east where your village is nestled between the Wrothgarian and Druadach mountains. Aside from supply lines being sparse and the animals wild, there is also the frequent problem of raids from the Reach and Orc tribes. Their settlement had a militia of course, and Reyna’s parents were no strangers to defending their land, but there is only so much one small village can do. So, when an orcish raiding party showed up with a fully grown echatere, the village was stamped out in a night. Those who fought back were cut down and defeated, and those who didn’t it couldn’t were captured. Reyna, being as young as she was at thirteen years old, couldn’t fight back, and since she was captured, her family did—-well, that was the last she ever saw of them, heads rolling before she would be taken back to their stronghold. Her parents always tried to explain to her that just because there were Orc tribes who wanted to hurt people, that didn’t mean that so orcs were bad people, but those sweet sentiments couldn’t have possibly prepared her for this or what was to come. What silver lining in this horrific and bleak situation is that they didn’t violate her or anything. They had a code of honor, however foreign it was to Reyna, but that didn’t save them from her grudge or her hatred of them, and indeed, they didn’t deserve to be spared from it either, for even with their honor they still had nothing pleasant in store for the little girl. Being not an Orc as well, they likely didn’t even see her as a real person. Eventually, when they got tired of having to feed their new pet or keeping space for her in one of their prisons, they’d escort her in chains to a makeshift arena, a fighting pit, throw in with her a sharpened stick, and released a half starved wolf into the pit with her to fight for their entertainment. They expected to see her get brutally ripped apart by a hungry wolf, an appetizer for the real fights ahead in the schedule, but Reyna was in survival mode ever since the raid began and wasn’t about to keep fear from keeping her from acting. As soon as the wolf lined at her, she held her makeshift spear up, and suddenly the wolf’s weight was on top of her, burger and heavier than she was, and she expected to feel it’s fangs tearing into her neck... but it was motionless and limp. A wet, sticky warmth spread across her abdomen. As she pushed rabid animal off of her, she found that it had unpacked itself on her weapon, halfway down its haft, and it was the blood of the wolf that had soaked her, rather than her own. Half of the spectators were silent, while a few were ranting and raving while others were whooping and cheering for the little girl who had overcome the odds. She was returned to her cell to fight another day. The next day it was another wolf, maybe the first time was a fluke. Maybe they should have fed it first. Now blooded and determined to survive, Reyna would take that one down to. Next time it was a group of skeevers. Then it was a wild boar. Then it was two wolves. They'd throw all manner of beasts at her, each test preparing her for the next. Realizing that this child had potential to serve as real entertainment, they began to give her scraps of armor and a real weapon to fight with, as they came to respect her growing strength. She was even earning fans in the crowd, and as she got older, the challenges became more difficult. She would live this way for [i]years,[/i] each day potentially her last, her only respite being suffering injury so that they'd allow her some time to rest and heal before fighting again at her full strength. There were times when, after slaying so many of the beasts and monsters they had captured and thrown her way, that Reyna had gotten too confident and tried to fight back against her orc captors whenever they would unlock her cell to send her out again, or go to disarm her after the fights, but she was always outnumbered, outgunned, and outmatched in power and endurance. These orcs that were independent of Orsinium had the capacity to destroy her, but were simply keeping her around for sport, and it was from this she realized that the only way to survive here was to learn from them. Four years into this hellish lifestyle, at age 17 in 4E14 -- not that she would remember her age anymore, or know what day or year it was -- she was considered a favorite. At this point, she was no longer the scrawny runt that they would try to kill with animals for their amusement, but an actual warrior, having earned the respect of the orcs as a warrior even if she was still enslaved by them and wasn't considered to be "one of them." As a warrior, they'd watch her fight for their entertainment of course, but they'd watch her to see how she'd move, how she struck, what clever tactics she might employ, and what she might take down her next challenger. The years were hard on her, forcing her to grow up and mature, her body hardened and solid and scarred, barely looking anything like the little girl who was taken from home years ago. They began outfitting her with better weapons and actual armor from the stronghold's forge. With them, she'd slain mountain lions, small bears, lesser trolls, ogres, and dreugh, and at her young age the orcs saw her as having been blessed by Malacath or something, especially since she wasn't even an orc. She was even made to fight other slaves, and after having been through this for so long, killing all manner of creatures, thinking nothing how to survive today ad how to survive tomorrow, she was able to cut them down as well with only a sliver of more remorse than she felt for the animals. Eventually, even orcish gladiators wanted to challenge her. She's still standing. The style was uniquely hers; she could not possibly hope to overpower the hardened orcish warriors, against many of whom she only stood as tall as their shoulders or their chests, who wielded weapons as long if not longer than her own body, and were sometimes even plated in orichalum armor. While indeed her strength is nothing to scoff at, she depended more on her maneuverability, a trait that the orcs couldn't match. She was faster, wasn't weighed down with as much armor or cumbersome weapons, and her short height made her a smaller target--perhaps even smaller than what they were used to dealing with. When an orc's strength is already such they could likely kill you easily with a small, fast weapon, they were only doing her favors by weighing themselves down with the heavy material and long, heavy constructions. Dodging and weaving, sliding across the ground, moving between their legs, under their arms, in all the nooks and crannies they normally didn't account for, she could find the places where the armor was weakest, or at the very least jump onto their back and stab them in the neck or take their helmets to give herself more openings. When her life is on the line, she couldn't afford to be impatient but neither can she afford to be indecisive. Orc culture and orc strength also meant that it usually didn't occur to them to fight dirty: throwing sand into their eyes, exploiting weak spots, aiming for joints, biting, and digging her thumbs into her enemy's eyes were all crucial tools in her arsenal. She had become more like the wild animals she had fought for so long. However, one of her weaknesses is one that is relatively common against all gladiator fighters and slave combatants: stamina. Her endurance insofar as taking a beating is impressive of course, but her exercise usually comes in the form of sudden bouts and fights, requiring explosive bursts of energy to end the fights quickly, mimicking the same kind of berserk that orcs could enter when threatened. Most fights and duels rarely last very long, as it usually takes only one shallow cut to weaken an enemy, or one well placed strike to end them, and Reyna never had the space or discipline to trek the same kind of distances and terrain as a regiment of soldiers. The past five years as of 4E15 have also been a period of transnational turmoil with the Stormcrown Interregnum, an event to which Reyna was completely oblivious and insulated from with her capture and enslavement, in which the Imperial hold over the other provinces completely disintegrated and created instability within the Empire. With the rise of the current Emperor claiming the throne, Thules the Gibbering, the barest semblance of stability returned, but just enough that the orc tribe that held Reyna -- that which she has since learned to be called Clan Luccin, an old clan that had fallen from its former glory -- to take notice of new lands. They had a vested interest in their arena culture, to which Reyna contributed much, and it had come to their attention that there is a new leader to the south that also had a vested interest in what was possibly the greatest arena in the world near the center of the Imperial City. So, wanting more opportunities for glory, they took a caravan of slaves and beasts with them to sell and make to fight--except for Reyna, who they would keep so that she could fight on their behalf along with their own gladiators, representing Clan Luccin. Not wanting to turn down new blood, the arena's battle master accepted the orc tribe's tributes. They initially laughed at them for wanting to submit a young girl into the arena, but after their side's silence and menacing stares, realized that the orc warriors were serious and allowed it. The match that followed was a four-person free-for-all, and naturally, all three of Reyna's opponents were men of different backgrounds who underestimated her and focused among themselves instead of paying attention to her. Once they were locked in their foray, Reyna took the opportunity to kick up a large plume of sand between them all, blinding all three of them, and cut each of them down one after the other in seconds. Barely a minute had passed and the child stood victorious as three men's blood soaked into the thirsty sand. Suddenly, out of nowhere, the people of the Imperial City had a new favorite to cheer for. When the cells of the bloodworks became her new prison, the arena would fashion her in a custom-made raiment and armor to better appeal to Imperial tastes, especially to that of Emperor Thules. Heat-treated steel breastplate coated in brass, heavily stylized with one arm armored and the other bare, Imperial-style dress to wear beneath, and an aspis-styled shield to wield alongside a gladius. Sporting the look of a quintessential Imperial gladiator, she would fight in the Imperial City arena for another six months (with two of her orc handlers remaining with her while the rest of the caravan returned home), lasting longer than most given her prior experience over the many slaves and beasts being forced to fight, until one fated day finally arrived. There has always been one woman in the bloodworks, who was probably old enough to be her mother, who has been around probably as long as she has--Isobel. It was through her inspiration and leadership that the gladiator-slaves of the bloodworks, including the grand champion and lord of the arena, the minotaur Beordan, could be rallied and overwhelm the guards securing the dungeon. Reyna slew her two orcish handlers on her way out and followed Isobel's lead, not knowing where else she could possibly go in this strange new land, and where else would she even want to go other than with the only ally she has ever known in a world where has no home? Reyna Stromfleur is indebted to Isobel Aurelia for the rest of her life as far as she is concerned, since before then she believed that one of these days she was going to die a slave for someone else's entertainment. Up until this moment, she fought and killed for nothing but survival and to fight another day -- it's the only thing she knows -- but thanks to Isobel, she thinks she's beginning to understand what it means to fight for something larger. Though she's still a feral young woman of erratic temperament, she feels the need to pay Isobel back in the only way she knows how, and if that means fighting for her cause and cutting down every person between her and Count Hruldan of Skingrad, then she's willing to do exactly that. Being freed from a life of violent servitude is a massive gesture and has awoken a type of unshakeable zealotry in Reyna that can't be contended with by neither word nor gesture, and it may have very well made her one of Isobel's most stalwart and fervent allies. It has perhaps also awakened an unshakeable irony in that she has traded one form of violent servitude for another, but at least this is one that she gets to choose. [hr][center][sub][i]"Crunzarga -- there's still a blood price to be paid. Ne gesh eb norgimin jur ubatarask!"[/i][/sub][/center][hr] [/hider] [hider=Sample]The diluted buzzing of bedlam reverberated through the air, as if its pulse traveled through an ocean between the sold stone walls which separated her from her freedom. A muffled and choked sound, of the scores of faceless people with indistinct voices, like mindless drones climbing over one another vying to be heard and noticed over the thousands of other souls. And they were bloodthirsty. They were hungry and ravenous things, always scrambling and demanding for more, as if the previous meal they had only reminded them of the empty pain that wreaked acidic havoc on their innards, and in resonance with their static tempo was a single dolorous beat. It was distinctly unlike the beating of a heart; it thundered only once, and it thundered slowly. Like a giant mammoth taking slow, carefully measured steps, or like a battering ram crashing down upon the gates of the very fortress that held her. It was undoubtedly the monster of the week, the next thing held in store for her, the next challenge, and the potential cause of her death. They’ve been trying to kill a little girl for years—for many, many, agonizingly long years. The rattling of chains from her comradery barely awakened her from her mortality. They could not distract her. The leagues of human chattel within the bloodworks were like flies on the wall to her, outside of her notice until it was time to eat. The thundering had stopped. Far gentler steps came down an echoey corridor from the stairs, though the girl knew that there was nothing gentle about them nor what they had in store for her. A beastly looking man of stony pigment entered the bloodworks, large and barrel-chested, and his deep, grating, and blasphemous voice reached the cell before he did, “it’s your turn, Little B,” and it made the hair on her body stand on end. “Did you hear me, Little B?” He’d repeat as he turned the corner. “I said your turn is coming up.” The stony beast-man stared down at the young woman, barely an adult, hugging her knees in the corner of her cell. Her newly gifted quilted clothes clinging to her body didn’t make her look any cleaner or scrub the dirt and calluses from her skin, and she silently stared down her keeper from beyond the bars. “Little Bitch,” he snarled this time as unlocked the cell and entered. He was covered in leather armor and had blades and a whip at his side, attached to his person. Dirty blood and grime were caked underneath his fingernails. He said again, “Stand up. Get ready for your turn.” Reyna said nothing—she did nothing, remaining silent and motionless in quiet rebellion. She refused. She waited. She watched. She was testing, her eyes carefully focused on her keeper, alert to a sudden change in movement. As the two glowered at each other, the orc reached his hand down to his whip, his nails digging into the leather, and that was Reyna’s cue to stand. She did so, and the orc took the hand off his whip. This song and dance was one that they were all too familiar with, and one that had physically scarred her too many times. Still, she exercised her will when she could. The other chattel of the bloodworks would be the ones to touch her, to fasten the buckles of her breastplate armor and her gauntlet, to fit her sandals and shin guards, and adjusting the toga underneath. There was another orc, her other keeper, who would stand on the other side of the gates holding her sword and her shield. They treated her like a wild animal with fangs and claws, letting the expendable human livestock handle her when they could. Their fingertips were like hot irons against her skin, the way it made her want to spin around and scratch their throats out, but the armed guard near her was quick, keen, and all too happy to punish her. Her armor glittered in the torchlight, its fire dancing in the reflection of her brass coating. It was an ugly thing that resembled the pretentious aesthetic of the Imperial people, something pretty on the surface under the glow of the sun, but a faux gold in reality, hiding the blood-stained steel beneath. “You’re fitted. Go.” Reyna was escorted up the ramp. The Basin of Renewal she walked past. It was allegedly an important ritual in the past, but now profaned by a pool of blood and pile of limbs. She thought nothing of it as the faint flicker of light approached at the end of the tunnel. It was that, if nothing else, that she lived for these days: the light of day, and as she approached it, the silhouette of her other keeper made itself distinct against the bars of the gate. Her two keepers nodded to each other, as they began to raise the gates, cuing the indistinct buzz and uproar of the crowd. The first of her keepers pushed her onto the hot sand, and the other stared her down wordlessly, tossing her shield and her sword into the center of the arena for her to retrieve. Reyna slowly walked after them, feeling the stares and spittle of the crowd on her back. “And so here we have it,” shouted one iron-lunged Imperial on a platform that jutted into the arena by a few feet, but even with the power of his voice, it barely whelmed the chorus of drunken cheers and boos filling the seats. “I am pleased to announce that this next match will be viewed by our very own and beloved Emperor Thules! It is my greatest honor that I introduce to him our next contender! Hailing far from here in the Wrothgarian mountains, the young Reyna has carved a scarred impression upon our beloved arena! A feral girl, a child of blood and battle, she’s become more orc than human! But can she survive the strongest and ugliest of Malacath’s children?” Reyna picked up the sword and shield embedded in the sand, dusting them off. She closed her eyes for a moment and aimed her face toward the sky to relish its warmth upon her skin. The announcer’s voice began to cause the blood to pump through her veins, drumming against the inside of her ears, its speed and intensity increasing every second. “Reyna—” She gripped her gladius tight in her hand, and her shield was raised, her eyes lowering down to just above its rim. The blood was growing ever louder. “—prepare yourself!” He and the crowd had gone silent in her ears. “Open the gates! The gates from across the other side of the arena exploded open as an enraged ogre charged into the clearing with blood caking its body. It wasn’t even armed with a club or weapon of any sort, just using its massive, boulder-like hands to fight and kill, and even one strike from them was surely enough to end her life on the spot. For a few muted seconds, Reyna charged forward to meet it. It was silence in her ears. Only her breathing and the blood pounding in her ears mattered to her, and as she sprinted forward with explosive speed, she trailed her sword behind her in the sand and left a scar in her wake until she suddenly turned its flat side down and, sliding beneath a swipe of the ogre's boulder-like hand, shoveled a spray of sand into the creature's face and rolled between its legs. Its roar was quiet in her ears as she shouted and cried her own screams and grunts, swiping at the tendons behind the ogre’s knees as she landed on the other side. With a plume of dusting erupting outward as the ogre fell to one knee, Reyna swiveled around and, in one fluid motion, cut through the tissue behind its other knee, and dust erupted outward once again. The gladiator moved to cut under the arm of the same side, but she couldn’t hear the ogre’s roar that foretold its massive hand reaching around its side to grab her, in response to which she instinctually pulled her shield up. The ogre grabbed it, and long with it her as it raised her high into the air as she hung down from its grip. The guttural snarls and its breath like death from its maw foretold an unceremonious oblivion, to which Reyna swiped wildly at its face to discourage it from taking a bite out of her. It triggered enough hesitation that it reached for her instead with its other hand, and afraid of having her limbs pulled apart, she swiped ferociously at its other hand, nicking its fingertips, and causing the creature to second-guess that option as well. In response, it much more suddenly swung its hand at her, threatening to crush her between its palms like a common fly. Reyna was forced to let go of her shield and fell, a thunderous boom coming from the clap just above her head. Reyna hit the ground and tumbled forward and not wanting to spend any given moment mired in inaction, swiped ahead of her as soon as he felt solid ground beneath the soles of her feet again—straight into lumbering giant’s blubbery belly. The nicks and rolled edges of her imperfect weapon caught on its flesh at first, but with a shrill and agonizing roar, Reyna poured every ounce of her strength into ripping and tearing the monster’s stomach open. Suddenly she felt the give of its flesh, finally cutting through that last sinewy layer and gutting the creature wide open as the blade of her sword snapped away from its handle, and immediately sprayed and poured a deluge of blood all over her like water from a crumbling dam as Reyna's face hit the sand. Spitting out a mouthful of its viscera and grit, she looked up to see if it was still alive—barely, and in its death throes and impressive endurance, seemed to want to take her down with it. She threw aside the useless handle and grabbed an armful of the guts that piled itself at her feet before climbing up the creature’s body, and using the folds of fat as footholds or the space between its ribs where the skin sloughed off of them, she leaped up and wrapped the ogre’s own guts around its neck. She had overshot her jump and was dangling behind the creature’s back even as the ogre choke. She dug her nails and fingers into meat of its guts, feeling the fibers tear under her weight, as she pushed her feet against the ogre’s back to tighten her hold on its neck overhead. The arms of the creature had grown too weak to resist, and eventually with one last bloodcurdling scream from Reyna, the monster had toppled over. She had crashed to the ground beside it, her chest heaving for breath and choked out by the rich smell of blood and iron that coated her from head to toe. She tried to open her eyes but was force to shut them again beneath the radiance of the sun. What was once a merciful warmth was now a punishing heat that was beating her down harder than stones. As her pumping blood slowed, her sense of hearing seemed to as well. She tuned back into the world outside her own to clamoring crowds throwing flowers into the arena, some throwing old food. The announcer man was going ballistic over what he called an unexpected victory. She spat in the sand again at the ugliness of its sound–of course she won. She didn’t have a choice. Reyna weakly staggered over to where the ogre dropped her shield and picked up again before heading toward the gate where she came from. Her two orc handlers were awaiting her there, standing with their arms crossed, looking proud and smug. She didn’t even have the energy to feel angry or hateful at them for it. They took her shield away and sent her down to be doffed of her armor and washed of the blood. That ogre didn’t land a single scratch on her. If it had, it would’ve killed her immediately. But this? She felt like utter and absolute shit. This was all from demanding too much of her body in a moment, probably straining something in her legs or back, and the shoulder she used to power through its stomach was screaming at her. As the breastplate fell to the floor around her, she felt like falling with it but her legs refused to budge. No falling. Not today, not ever. These fights just kept getting harder. Why did they keep getting harder?[/hider]