Atrophy

The Origin: A Devil Returned (Arc Two)

@The Darklight ProjectAw yeah the Bookhouse Boys are at it again!

The Hidden People

Honestly I'm more of a Taco Bell and Gatorade guy when it comes to curing hangovers, but that's besides the point.

_{The back-half of the week is always very busy for me. I'll get a post work-shopped by Tuesday.}

The Gladiators of Arlen

Ashley Wyatt Harper & Endar Drayen

"You're looking mighty parched, my lord," shouted Harper as he stomped through the sand, uninvited, over to Ignis with the second glass of wine raised high as an offering. He stopped a few feet in front of the lord's chair, his eyes darting side to side in anticipation of some antsy guard coming to pull him aside as he extended the glass forward. "For you, my friend. For your hospitality."

Endar turned to the newcomer, having not expected someone to approach him right at that very moment. He was unoccupied, though, so he supposed he could understand the miscommunication. It wasn't the man's fault, after all.

"I... thank you." Endar wasn't thirsty at all, actually, but for the sake of good showing, he took the goblet anyway. Placing it on the arm of his chair, he met the eyes of the one who had brought it. "Now, could I ask you your name?"

Harper's smile widen as the other man took the drink. There was always something nice about getting a noble to step down, if only momentarily, to his level. "My name is Ashley Wyatt Harper," he said, giving a slight bow of the head. "And you're the young Lord Ignis Doman, unless I happened to wander into the wrong soiree. So, you're trying to make a go at it in the arenas, correct?"

Endar was somewhat surprised, and not unpleasantly - here was the first person he'd not needed to introduce himself to. Granted, it was likely everyone else had some idea of who he was, they had just not known who they were looking for. He opened his mouth to respond, but he found himself distracted by his adviser rising from his own seat.

"Now stop right there." Ezekiel snapped. "I know your name, Harper. Disgraced gladiator. Gambler. Fixer. Game thrower. If you think that you're getting one step closer to his lordship then-"

That was enough. "Then you'd be right." Endar interjected. "You can consider yourself accepted, Sir Harper, though I would ask that you detail what you can do, since Ezekiel clearly views you through coloured glass."

"Gladly," said Harper, shooting a look over at Ezekiel as he took one step closer. "Let me answer your question with a question of my own: have you ever fought in an arena before?" He turned and waved his glass at the collection of neophytes lingering around the beverage table. "Have any of those people fought in an arena before? Does anyone here know the first step in preparing for a competition, setting up match ups, winning the favor of the crowd, and all the other various ins and outs of gladiatorial life?" He paused for just long enough to not give Ignis a chance to answer. "Because the look on your face tells me that the answer's no."

"Listen, your man's partly right. I am a gambler. I may have greased some palms to make some people who shouldn't have win. I don't know what this game throwing nonsense he's talking about is, but I can assure you that it's just that: nonsense. But, most importantly, I was a gladiator before. I know all the stuff that you know you don't know, and I know some of the stuff that you don't even know exists. You need somebody like me on the team, otherwise that crowd's going to eat you alive and, trust me, they're what you're fighting, not that pack of meatheads seven feet ahead of you," said Harper. He paused for another second, and then added, "Plus I'm a fairly decent shot and nobody else around here has a bow."

Endar blinked. This one was as full of surprises as the last. He was right, though - he had no idea what went on in the arena other than the matches. And there was, admittedly, no gladiators among them aside Ezekiel... and at the moment, the idea of turning to him for assisstance was less and less appealing every other moment. The only reason he'd kept Ezekiel on was because he was his uncle's friend.

He mulled what Harper had said over in his mind for a few moments, before nodding. "I see. Though I would rather you didn't insult your teammates when they are six feet behind you. And... a warning, if I might add. Since both you and Ezekiel say you have a rather shady past... I'm asking you to cease any motions that are in action, and refrain to do so in the future. If I find that you're operating other means without my knowledge or permission, I can't say that you'd stay on our team. A twice-disgraced gladiator isn't likely to get a third chance, is he?"

"And he greatly appreciates this second chance," said Harper, pointing at Ignis with his free hand. "Trust me, you won't regret this at all. When we're in my hometown, Letum, sweeping up victory after victory at the Dauoa Festival, it'll be this moment that you look back on smiling. I guarantee it."

The youth stilled... Letum? As in, Letum, capital city of Noctis? And this man called it home. "I... I cannot say we will visit the city, nor even the country, Harper... but I... do not doubt that I will come to value your advice in the days and weeks to come."

"I'm looking forward to it, my lord. Thank you for the wine," said Harper, raising his glass one last time before turning to go join the others at the table. He had skipped breakfast that day, and he intended to make the most out of his new benefactor as he could.

Beyond the Storms

The lack of any response makes me believe that Merc's still locked outside which, while horrifying, is still somewhat amusing.

The Gladiators of Arlen

Harper sure is a character, alright.

@Ammokkx

I believe the word you're looking for is "kind of a giant tool", but yeah, let's go with character.

The Gladiators of Arlen

Ashley Wyatt Harper

Harper tapped the coin on the hard wood of the table, his legs stretched out beneath him and his torso resting forward on the frame as if he had deflated. In truth, he was being weighed down by that coin; the last one always was the heaviest. If he were sensible he would spend it on a meal or a bed, buying himself one more evening of comfort before desperation forced him out of the gray and into the black. If he had given up he would’ve bought himself a drink or a companion, one last vice before he went off to embrace the Mistress. If he had any luck he would put it all on the roll of the dice, but only if he could be the one to supply the dice. He had been cheated as many times as he himself had cheated, if not more. In the end, though, he took none of those options. Harper knew that the moment he spent that coin all of the other opportunities would close; as long as he held onto it his options were limitless. He just wished that his time was, too.

However, it all wasn’t so bleak. Tap. It may had been at the price of him leaving most of his money behind on the card table, but he had cheated death in the last town—his coat still had the cut to prove it. If he had to become a beggar, he couldn’t pick a better town than Risha; the breeze was nice, the sun was shining, and there was something pleasant about the scent of the sea. Tap, tap. Maybe he could become a fisherman. Doubtful. He knew he would make for a better pirate, excluding his inability to sail. A minor detail. Tap. Still, it was nice to have a flight of fancy about digging up chests of lost treasure as he relaxed in the corner of the open-air tavern, his face looking out longingly towards the sea.

Tap.

Harper could hear what sounded like a group of drunken, off-key singers. From the sounds of things, it was getting closer. He smiled. Good to know that some people were having fun; maybe they would feel generous on the sad sap and buy him a drink. It sounded like they needed an (equally terrible sounding) tenor to go with their bass and baritone.

Tap.

The choir walked by the large, open window; five of them, armored up and armed to the teeth. Gladiators. Pre-emptively celebrating their victories in the tournament, Harper supposed. His smile turned bittersweet. His troubles would all be settled if he could set foot back in the arena, but he knew that door had been closed due to his time in Ashar.

Tap.

His eyes went wide with recognition as the group piled in through the door and swarmed the bar. What were they doing here? Time to go before things got awkward. Quickly, Harper pocketed his coin and slid out of his seat. He had made it three steps before a booming voiced slurred out: “Oy! Look who it is! Harper, get over here, you prick.” Before Harper knew it, a pair of strong hands had grabbed him on either shoulder and practically dragged him over to the bar. The owner of the voice—a large, barrel-chested man—clapped him, hard, on the back. “I knew it was you. Trying to run out on ol’ Angus, eh?”

“Angus, Angus,” said Harper, muttering on his voice as he rubbed his chin as if he was trying to place the name with the face. He had met Angus about a dozen of times, fought him and his crew about half a dozen, beaten his team twice, and given him a black-eye outside of the arena once. Hopefully the giant didn’t remember that. Harper’s voice picked up as he pretended to just recognize him. “Oooh, Angus! Yeah. How have you been, friend?” Harper looked around; familiar faces, same crew. “What brings you boys all the way out here? Last I heard you were try to crush the competition in Arlen.”

“We crushed the competition in Arlen,” said Angus, poking a meaty finger into Harper’s chest.

“Ah, yes, always heard they were a soft bunch there, guess it must’ve been true,” said Harper, smiling as he gingerly pushed the finger away from his chest. “So you decided to go out of the way to come all the way here to compete in the little leagues? Didn’t you boys used to fight in Letum?” Harper gritted his teeth and, talking out the side of his mouth, said, ”My, that’s not quite the fairy tale ending any of you could’ve been hoping for, eh?”

“Big talk for someone who doesn’t even compete anymore,” chimed in one of the more-sober members of Angus’s crew. Another big guy. Harper looked around; they were all big guys. Intimidating, sure, but not diverse enough to make it far in any tournaments. One well protected mage could shred all of them.

“More like can’t compete,” said Angus, crossing his arms. “From what I hear you can’t even set foot in an arena these days and that no team will have you.”

”I admit, I do bring an unfair advantage to any team I am on. The matches just wouldn’t be interesting, I’m afraid. And Harper’s team wins again,” he said in an inexpressive, dull drone and then shrugged. “Nobody would come to the arena’s anymore.”

“I think you meant to say that you’d bring an unfair handicap to any team you’re on. Getting shot in the back by your own teammate doesn’t really put you in an advantageous position,” said Angus, smirking.

“Okay, seriously, that’s a little cheap,” said Harper. ”I don’t bring up how I had you convinced that I knew magic for three months.” Harper saw some eyebrows raise behind their mugs. “He didn’t tell you that one, did he? Oh it’s a great story. So, see, all I did was—”

“Ah-bah-bah-bah, nobody wants to hear you spin one of your yarns, Harper.”

“—soaked a rag in kerosene, wrapped it around a rock, and struck a match. Nearly burned my damn fingers off, but ol’ Gus here was warning everybody about how my team had a fire mage on it for damn near—”

“Harper, shut up! Nobody cares what you had to say when you were in it, and absolute nobody cares what you have to say now that you’re a has-been.”

“Yeah,” chimed in the same big guy. Both Harper and Angus shot him a disgusted look. “I would say we’d see you when we’re collecting our first place prize, but…”

“But it’d be impossible, since my team already has it in the bag, I know. Second place is still admirable, though, I guess. I mean, if you’re into losing.’ The words were out of Harper’s mouth before he realized what he was saying. One brag too far. Quickly, he glued his lips shut.

“You don’t have a team, Harper,” said Angus, matter-of-factly. He had a pretty damn good head on his shoulders for such a big guy.

“Pft, yeah. I bet the only one that would take you is that Ignis kid. He’s so desperate he’d take anyone,” said the other guy. Harper’s eyes went wide; Angus shot the man another look of disgust.

”Well I didn’t have a team,” said Harper. ”Guess the next time I’ll see you will be inside that beautiful, bloody ring.”

Harper offered a half-bow and turned to leave, his pace quickening as he got closer to the door. He had thought that perhaps Angus would try and snatch him, maybe sit him down a give him a gladiator-to-man talk of why a disgrace like Harper shouldn’t ruin the sanctity of the arena by jumping back in it, or at least why he shouldn’t ruin this Iggy-kid’s shot at making a name for himself by bandwagoning along, but the man didn’t. Perhaps he didn’t care. Perhaps he believed that Harper might actually deserve a chance. Whichever it was, Harper was glad he didn’t feel a meaty paw grab him by the scruff. One thing was clear: Angus had definitely forgotten about the black eye. He was walking by the big window when the man called out after Harper, saying something. Turning his head, Harper stopped and stared at Angus.

”Come again?”

“I said we’re heading to Letum after this. I’ll be sure to tell Allegra you say hi the next time I see her,” said Angus, sneering.

Harper hung his shoulders. ”C’mon man, I told you I was sorry about that suckerpunch.” He flipped his last coin to Angus. “Next one’s on me, big guy.”

---

Harper heaved a sigh of relief as the guards confirmed that he had, in fact, finally found the Doman domain. The man had spent the better part of his day pestering locals and travellers alike for directions as well as pressing them for any information on who was this Ignis Doman character. Harper would be the first to admit that he did not know everybody, but he knew a lot of people, and he especially at least made certain to know of anyone who owned land, was wealthy, or had blue in their blood. Yet this Doman guy seemed like a blank slate; nouveau riche, then. Harper would be fine with that. Certainly someone with such little history would be concerned about Harper’s own little history. Maybe. Hopefully.

Whatever. It was clear from the state of the grounds and the full guard duty that Doman had money, and that was Harper’s entire reason of coming. Well, money, and to back up his big talk. He hated to admit it, but Angus had gotten underneath his skin and the last thing he wanted was to have him go blabbing back to Allegra on what a sad sap he had turned out to be. He’d have to have a serious man-to-man with Angus after all of this; they might butt heads every now and then, but the giant was a sweet guy at the end of the day. Certainly he’d understand, but right now Harper was only looking forward to shutting up his big damn mouth.

From the looks of things it looked like he wasn’t the only one who had answered the call. So he was fashionably late. Good, he didn’t want to seem too eager or too needy, although a part of him wished he had shown up early enough so that he could get a feel for the group gathered around the food and drinks—it’d be nice to know if he were joining a lost cause. He quickly sized them up as his escorts made themselves scarce, one of them muttering that Lord Iggy would see him in a moment. Three lads, two ladies. Well, he’s seen worse ratios before. Shifting the bag slung over his shoulders, he further scrutinized the group as he walked over to join them, taking in the detail of their arms and armor.

Okay, Harp, here’s what you’ve gotta work with. Pops there beating up that helpless wooden man and our thirsty boy Red are without a doubt your frontline rushers. All brawn, little brains, no magic, no problem. Hopefully they can follow simple orders. Also, maybe we should try to refrain from being a conceited jerk, at least around them. No doubt they could snap your scrawny ass in two. Big weapons give big hits, and big hits give big applauses. Good lads. Next up is the Big Bear. A shield? Seriously? Okay, you’ll be some work. Hopefully you just bash in brains with it and nothing else. Not that I’d be upset if you decide to just stand in front of your new best friend; just make sure to lower that thing every once in awhile to let some cuts in so you give the kids some blood. You’re already one step there without that shirt.

Speaking of wardrobe, did you lose your shoes lady? Should I leave a little caltrop lying around in the grass to teach you why we wear boots? No, better not—no weapons, no armor, come on, might as well carry around a sign that says “I do magic, kill me first” and be done with it. Judging by the ashy clothing and the singed hair my guess is you’re either a fire mage or you cleaned a chimney before this. Or was it both, Char? Oh, and don’t think I missed you sulking over there, Knives. Obviously, you’re...um...a mystery. Well, that’s terrifying. Then again, maybe you’re just here for the food. Boy, do you need it; and I thought I was hungry.

“My I don’t think I’ve ever seen a more vicious pack of skull bashers and throat cutters in my entire life,” said Harper. He didn’t intend for it to sound sarcastic but, well, surely they had common sense. “Pardon me, sweetheart. Here, this works better,” he said, sidling around the redheaded man to fill up a goblet of wine and setting an empty cup next to what looked as if it was supposed to be a community jug. “See, we already make a great team.”

“Now I’d love to stay and chat, but I can see that our host does not have a glass of wine and I must fix that, said Harper, quickly adding, ”because either he’s sober, or he’s secretly an extremist for the Cult, and neither of those are good things. Enjoy your drinks.

The Gladiators of Arlen

@CollectorOfMystAt work right now, but I'll get writing when I get home.

The Gladiators of Arlen

Harper

Harper

“Don’t think of it as cheating, think of it as strategizing.”

Profile

Full Name: Ashley Wyatt Harper
Titles/Nicknames: The Magnificent, the Great, the Illustrious, the Wise, none of which have caught on despite his tongue-in-cheek insistence, strangely. Everybody just calls him by his last name.
Age: 24
Race: Human
Gender: Male
Sexual Orientation: To gold, mostly, and the people who have it.

Hair Color: Brown
Eye Color: Blue
Height: 5’11”
Weight: 170

Appearance: Harper is a staunch believer in the clothes making the man and is often never seen in anything less than an colorful, eye-catching long coat, a fitted shirt, dark pants, and boots shined to a blinding polish. Hailing from Noctis, Harper’s skin is rather pale and seemingly incapable of holding anything beyond a temporary sunburn. His hair is well-groomed, and he tends to leave a lingering scent of sandalwood cologne in his wake. Despite his prim and posh appearance, Harper doesn’t hold himself in any sort of kingly manner; he tends to lazily drag his body around as if his bones were made of stone. He slouches when he stands and practically fuses with the chair when he sits.

Personality: Harper is a chatterbox and a schmoozer. He can and will talk to anyone if given a chance, and has the seemingly uncanny ability to remember even the briefest of encounters. He’s confident and playful when around others, and is the kind of person who could directly insult another person without managing to offend them. He is a bit of a braggart, but in turn balances out his gloating with knowing winks and the occasional self-deprecation. Harper was largely (and still is) motivated by money, and he would unabashedly step over his own mother if she stood in the way between an easy payday. He’s fine with cheating, lying, and just about anything else as long as it doesn’t require putting in an honest effort.

Combat

Strength: 4
Dexterity: 5
Intelligence: 9
Cunning: 7
Magic: 1
Willpower: 2
Endurance: 3
Charisma: 9

Weapons of Choice: A crossbow, a short sword, and a bag brimming with caltrops, irritant powders, smoke bombs, and other goodies.

Armor/Combat Apparel: The only difference between Harper’s daily wear and his arena wear is his long coat, which is white instead of the usual loud colors. He states this is purely an aesthetic for the audience so they can better see the blood of his foes; he fails to mention that the white coat is about thirty pounds heavier and has been sewn around a rather protective layer of chain mail.

Fighting Style: Harper is a showman and a strategist. Before a fight he does what he can to find out information about his opponents to better prepare his team, and he isn’t above greasing someone’s palm to stack the odds in his favor. Entering into a fight he is often seen working the crowd and getting them to favor his team as if he were some gladiatorial hypeman. Despite his showiness and grandiose, during a fight Harper tends to sticks to the edge of the arena where he can get a better view of the whole picture, shouting orders and calling out opportunities to his allies and firing bolts and insults at his enemies to draw them out of position. His value diminishes fairly rapidly when he’s forced to directly enter the fray, and if he senses that his team is likely going to lose he’s more likely to throw the match and find some gruesome way to go out to entertain the audience than try and stage a desperate comeback.

Magical Affinity: None.

Legacy

Place of Birth: The happy sunshine land of Noctis!
Social Status: Gambler, only because “Disgraced Gladiator” has such a nasty tone to it.
Alignment: Water

History: Harper came from a fairly poor family and grew up in the backstreets of Letum. He was made to work from a young age to help support his other siblings, and like many kids he was sent to the arenas to clean weapons, polish armor, and act as gofers for the gladiators. It was a lot of work—too much for Harper—and he would often shirk his responsibilities in favor of sneaking into the stands to watch the carnage. He was infatuated with the gladiatorial life from his first fight; he wanted to be apart of something where others would chant his name, where beautiful people would cling onto him like accessories, and where he would be paid in lots and lots of money, so much money that he wouldn’t have to clean a toilet ever again.

He trained during shift and on his breaks, but he never could fully dedicate himself to the rigamarole of gladiatorial training. Weeks would go by where he did nothing but practice his shoot and read nothing but strategy books, and then weeks would go by where he did nothing but sneak away to take a nap in an alcove. The only thing he did consistently, it seemed, was talk to the gladiators that came into his arena. Most of the other kids were too in awe or too frightened to go up to someone like Varnus the Skullcrusher and spit about the game, but not Harper. By the time he was in his teens he already knew a selection of gladiators, and more importantly he knew how to sweet talk gladiators. Eventually he wormed his way into a team, even though he wasn’t the strongest, the fastest, the toughest, and didn’t have a lick of magic in his body.

In all honesty, the team he got himself on wasn’t the best in the world. Hell, they weren’t even the best in Letum. In fact, they were more like the worst. Disorganized and more likely to fight one another than the enemy team, Harper was able to easily charm his way to a position of power within the group and then start using his influence to help them stay focused when in the arena. He didn’t give a damn if they tore themselves apart outside of the arena, but when money was on the line they needed to win. And they did, maybe...one in every ten fights. It was an improvement, but it wasn’t enough.

The turning point came when an elfblood named Allegra was roped into their team through a mutual friend. Unlike Harper, Allegra was strong, fast, tough, and she could melt someone in the blink of an eye. She was truly something else, and it was her skill alone that turned his team into Letum’s rising stars—seriously, she had won several matches after the rest of the team had been wiped out without taking away a single opponent. On her back they were carried to the finales during the Dauoa Festival. A victory meant prestige and a decent-sized payday split seven ways. The odds were heavily in their favor and they were crowd favorites.

With the blue sun peaking through the leaves a horn was blown and the final fight was underway. Allegra was charging straight into the enemy team, the sound of lightning cackling as she readied a spell, when she hit the ground like a bag of bricks, a crossbow bolt embedded between her shoulder blades. In either a genuine show of concern or a superb display of acting, a horrified Harper dropped his fired crossbow and ran forward to check on the downed Allegra. Next thing he knew he was brought back to life by the arena runes and surrounded by the rest of his visibly upset team who had fallen quickly after them. He convinced them that it had been a misfire, but knew that Allegra would have none of it. She was convinced that he struck a deal with the other team and had thrown the match.

Knowing that being on Allegra's bad side could turn fatal, Harper packed his bags and moved away. Unfortunately, this only further raised suspicions of collusion against the man, and word spread through the arena circuit that Harper was a cheat and a backstabber. He had joined a new team in Ashar, but when word got out of his little stunt they dropped him in an instant. Harper never could find another team to take him on, but he knew nothing aside from arena life. If everyone thought of him as a cheat, he might as well become a cheat. Harper spent a few months trying to fix matches to various successes, but eventually his reputation preceded him and he was quick to find himself surrounded by unfriendly and armed gladiators anytime he set foot near an arena.

Harper tried to make an honest living as a gambler, but luck was never on his side and one could only cheat so much before someone caught on and reached for a dagger. He traveled from town to town, trying to beat the spread of his name as a vagrant and a scoundrel in hopes of being able to make a few quick bucks before moving on to the next one, but it was growing more and more difficult by the day. Almost tougher than doing honest, hard work; heck, actually tougher than being a shoddy gladiator.

And that’s when luck, for once, smiles on him and gives him a second chance while he’s laying low in Risha. Some kid’s trying to put a team together and he’s desperate for help. Maybe it’s time for Harper to turn a new leaf and jump back into the ring. A little bit of redemption never hurt anybody, and people love a comeback story. Besides, he’s broke and the kid smells like money.

The Gladiators of Arlen

@CollectorOfMystNice. Appreciate the feedback. I went ahead and edited the sheet; took out the poisons and swapped the spear for a short sword. The powders are just basic kind of irritants; burn the eyes, induce coughing, a step above picking up a fist full of dirt and throwing it in the eyes. I changed a little bit of his backstory so while other teams would still have reason to doubt him he did not blatantly betray his crew.

The Gladiators of Arlen

@CollectorOfMyst

Harper

Harper

“Don’t think of it as cheating, think of it as strategizing.”

Profile

Full Name: Ashley Wyatt Harper
Titles/Nicknames: The Magnificent, the Great, the Illustrious, the Wise, none of which have caught on despite his tongue-in-cheek insistence, strangely. Everybody just calls him by his last name.
Age: 24
Race: Human
Gender: Male
Sexual Orientation: To gold, mostly, and the people who have it.

Hair Color: Brown
Eye Color: Blue
Height: 5’11”
Weight: 170

Appearance: Harper is a staunch believer in the clothes making the man and is often never seen in anything less than an colorful, eye-catching long coat, a fitted shirt, dark pants, and boots shined to a blinding polish. Hailing from Noctis, Harper’s skin is rather pale and seemingly incapable of holding anything beyond a temporary sunburn. His hair is well-groomed, and he tends to leave a lingering scent of sandalwood cologne in his wake. Despite his prim and posh appearance, Harper doesn’t hold himself in any sort of kingly manner; he tends to lazily drag his body around as if his bones were made of stone. He slouches when he stands and practically fuses with the chair when he sits.

Personality: Harper is a chatterbox and a schmoozer. He can and will talk to anyone if given a chance, and has the seemingly uncanny ability to remember even the briefest of encounters. He’s confident and playful when around others, and is the kind of person who could directly insult another person without managing to offend them. He is a bit of a braggart, but in turn balances out his gloating with knowing winks and the occasional self-deprecation. Harper was largely (and still is) motivated by money, and he would unabashedly step over his own mother if she stood in the way between an easy payday. He’s fine with cheating, lying, and just about anything else as long as it doesn’t require putting in an honest effort.

Combat

Strength: 4
Dexterity: 5
Intelligence: 9
Cunning: 7
Magic: 1
Willpower: 2
Endurance: 3
Charisma: 9

Weapons of Choice: A crossbow, a short sword, and a bag brimming with caltrops, irritant powders, smoke bombs, and other goodies.

Armor/Combat Apparel: The only difference between Harper’s daily wear and his arena wear is his long coat, which is white instead of the usual loud colors. He states this is purely an aesthetic for the audience so they can better see the blood of his foes; he fails to mention that the white coat is about thirty pounds heavier and has been sewn around a rather protective layer of chain mail.

Fighting Style: Harper is a showman and a strategist. Before a fight he does what he can to find out information about his opponents to better prepare his team, and he isn’t above greasing someone’s palm to stack the odds in his favor. Entering into a fight he is often seen working the crowd and getting them to favor his team as if he were some gladiatorial hypeman. Despite his showiness and grandiose, during a fight Harper tends to sticks to the edge of the arena where he can get a better view of the whole picture, shouting orders and calling out opportunities to his allies and firing bolts and insults at his enemies to draw them out of position. His value diminishes fairly rapidly when he’s forced to directly enter the fray, and if he senses that his team is likely going to lose he’s more likely to throw the match and find some gruesome way to go out to entertain the audience than try and stage a desperate comeback.

Magical Affinity: None.

Legacy

Place of Birth: The happy sunshine land of Noctis!
Social Status: Gambler, only because “Disgraced Gladiator” has such a nasty tone to it.
Alignment: Water

History: Harper came from a fairly poor family and grew up in the backstreets of Letum. He was made to work from a young age to help support his other siblings, and like many kids he was sent to the arenas to clean weapons, polish armor, and act as gofers for the gladiators. It was a lot of work—too much for Harper—and he would often shirk his responsibilities in favor of sneaking into the stands to watch the carnage. He was infatuated with the gladiatorial life from his first fight; he wanted to be apart of something where others would chant his name, where beautiful people would cling onto him like accessories, and where he would be paid in lots and lots of money, so much money that he wouldn’t have to clean a toilet ever again.

He trained during shift and on his breaks, but he never could fully dedicate himself to the rigamarole of gladiatorial training. Weeks would go by where he did nothing but practice his shoot and read nothing but strategy books, and then weeks would go by where he did nothing but sneak away to take a nap in an alcove. The only thing he did consistently, it seemed, was talk to the gladiators that came into his arena. Most of the other kids were too in awe or too frightened to go up to someone like Varnus the Skullcrusher and spit about the game, but not Harper. By the time he was in his teens he already knew a selection of gladiators, and more importantly he knew how to sweet talk gladiators. Eventually he wormed his way into a team, even though he wasn’t the strongest, the fastest, the toughest, and didn’t have a lick of magic in his body.

In all honesty, the team he got himself on wasn’t the best in the world. Hell, they weren’t even the best in Letum. In fact, they were more like the worst. Disorganized and more likely to fight one another than the enemy team, Harper was able to easily charm his way to a position of power within the group and then start using his influence to help them stay focused when in the arena. He didn’t give a damn if they tore themselves apart outside of the arena, but when money was on the line they needed to win. And they did, maybe...one in every ten fights. It was an improvement, but it wasn’t enough.

The turning point came when an elfblood named Allegra was roped into their team through a mutual friend. Unlike Harper, Allegra was strong, fast, tough, and she could melt someone in the blink of an eye. She was truly something else, and it was her skill alone that turned his team into Letum’s rising stars—seriously, she had won several matches after the rest of the team had been wiped out without taking away a single opponent. On her back they were carried to the finales during the Dauoa Festival. A victory meant prestige and a decent-sized payday split seven ways. The odds were heavily in their favor and they were crowd favorites.

With the blue sun peaking through the leaves a horn was blown and the final fight was underway. Allegra was charging straight into the enemy team, the sound of lightning cackling as she readied a spell, when she hit the ground like a bag of bricks, a crossbow bolt embedded between her shoulder blades. In either a genuine show of concern or a superb display of acting, a horrified Harper dropped his fired crossbow and ran forward to check on the downed Allegra. Next thing he knew he was brought back to life by the arena runes and surrounded by the rest of his visibly upset team who had fallen quickly after them. He convinced them that it had been a misfire, but knew that Allegra would have none of it. She was convinced that he struck a deal with the other team and had thrown the match.

Knowing that being on Allegra's bad side could turn fatal, Harper packed his bags and moved away. Unfortunately, this only further raised suspicions of collusion against the man, and word spread through the arena circuit that Harper was a cheat and a backstabber. He had joined a new team in Ashar, but when word got out of his little stunt they dropped him in an instant. Harper never could find another team to take him on, but he knew nothing aside from arena life. If everyone thought of him as a cheat, he might as well become a cheat. Harper spent a few months trying to fix matches to various successes, but eventually his reputation preceded him and he was quick to find himself surrounded by unfriendly and armed gladiators anytime he set foot near an arena.

Harper tried to make an honest living as a gambler, but luck was never on his side and one could only cheat so much before someone caught on and reached for a dagger. He traveled from town to town, trying to beat the spread of his name as a vagrant and a scoundrel in hopes of being able to make a few quick bucks before moving on to the next one, but it was growing more and more difficult by the day. Almost tougher than doing honest, hard work; heck, actually tougher than being a shoddy gladiator.

And that’s when luck, for once, smiles on him and gives him a second chance while he’s laying low in Risha. Some kid’s trying to put a team together and he’s desperate for help. Maybe it’s time for Harper to turn a new leaf and jump back into the ring. A little bit of redemption never hurt anybody, and people love a comeback story. Besides, he’s broke and the kid smells like money.