She ran a sandpaper tongue over her bleeding lips and gums, turning her head to spit. Her footpads slide over the loose dirt, and she felt the corner of her mouth twitch up into a grim smile. Feral. That was how she felt. Doubtless that was how she looked, her fur matted where tarnished leathers didn't cover it. The rest of her covered in scars that now seemed ancient, alongside wounds just starting to heal. Initially, they'd had to drug her to fight. Initially, it had been a struggle just to force her into the Arena. She'd thrown her sword down and taken the beatings. Again. And again. And again.
One could only get thwacked upside the head so many times before it did something to cognitive memory. First it had been how she'd even found herself in this purgatory. Where was she again? Next was where she'd come from before. She hadn't been born here, surely? Her name was last. That one was disorienting. The opponent had managed to fracture her wrist before she snapped back into reality.
By that time she wasn't permitted a weapon any longer. She was meat, and nothing else, meant to be bruised and bloodied solely so that the crowd could look on and cheer. The ynnwn was not a particularly impressive fellow in anything other than gods-given size; his movements were thuggish and reduced to whatever he could manage to latch onto with slow-moving fists. Her protest was forgotten along with her history. In its place was nothing but instinct, purely animal. She lunged at him, claws sliding out of their beds, jaw opening to show fangs. She scrambled upwards, found his jugular, and bit down until she tasted metal and heard his strangled breathing.
When she stood again, she was reborn. Pain and trefoil had washed away recollection in a haze of agony and drugging. She raised a fist towards the astonished crowd, shrieking her defiance, shrieking because her confusion left no room for fear and only space for rage. Their cheers energized her. They filled her with the need and desire to win.
And win she did. Match after match. She climbed through the ranks that stubbornness had managed to let her fall. Phoenix, they called her, Phoenix from the ashes. They had no idea how appropriate that name rang true. For that matter, neither did she.
Now she fought the better stock. Now she stood in front of a nolthrir, eyes cold, motions deadly-quick. Both were bleeding. Both were struck. His shoulder held a puncture that wept constantly. He was breathing hard, but so was she. The match was close. The audience was watching with bated breath and a collective sigh with every landed hit.
It was time that won it. She had endurance on her side. She was used to pain. Why, she couldn't quite remember, but it got her what she wanted so it didn't matter. When he finally stumbled, she advanced, plunging the sword through his chest like a knife through softest butter. The crowd went wild. She was exhilarated.
He slumped, and Dakkru's clutching fingers curled around him and whisked him away.
It was only at this point that she still felt it. That moral tug, that inherent wrongness. The
wait a minute, this isn't right here, something is wrong. It reached through the foggy violence and tapped at her conscience insistently. She would freeze, jaw slightly parted, in an inexplicable stupor.
Why did you kill him? That's not right. Who are you? Who are you? That was when they triggered the collar. It was infused with so much enchantment she couldn't begin to guess what it all entailed. First it sapped her energy. It drove her to her knees, a weak husk, a limp mess of limbs and weakly protesting growls. They would advance and drag her back into her cell, toss her inside to recuperate on a straw mattress and a bowl of thick porridge.
The akkaio blinked her eyes. The world was a blur for a while. She took measured breaths, waiting for the paralytic tingling to leave her limbs. Then she sat up slowly, and looked around her, her eyes searching in the dimness to see her unlikely compatriots whose freedom was also given up inside the rusty iron cages.
[Take it from here! You can be:
A fellow fighter of any particular race or attitude recalling similar events
A guard skulking in the corners or taunting somebody
An onlooker from the crowd who came down to poke fun
Anything that comes to mind!
Time: Current. Location: Deep in the sewers. Other ambiguity will later be explained.
Further details to be revealed. I plan to bring this arc in game at some point. For now, jump on in!]