Arena Players
[This is an RP that is outside Etla's continuity. It takes place before most of your characters were born. I need to get a little bit of fight out of my system, so recalling the Dark Eye days seems like a good way. Refer to anything on Shay's weapon page that preceeds or is an item followed by the caption "Dark Eye." Also, the sword belt is lacking pteruges at the moment and the crossguard on the sword is broken off. For those of you who don't know, my character Shayonn was once younger, a wee bit shorter, a lot more evil, and considerably more likely to murder you in your sleep and do terrible things to your goat.]

Without looking down she knew that her boots, greaves, sword belt, and breastplate were all where she needed them to be. She wore minimalist coverings under them, a simple poncho falling over her upper torso, and some tight, short leggings. The clink of her very evil boots (which she even now thinks of as animate and devious) was distinct against the roar of background noise. Studs, spikes, steel toes. These boots were less shoes and more weapons that strapped right into her greaves. Traps. She knew that her pale blue hair, with its grey streaks, was bound tightly into a braid that hid a spiked strap. Hairpullers beware. She knew her vines were tucked safely under a curving, hawkish helmet. Dark steel, leather, and silk clung to the contours of her muscular body. In places, steel pierced her body in the form of jewelry, decorating her ears and hidden bellybutton. The array of riveted plate was somewhat minimalist, too, only covering her torso, head, and legs. Her arms were free.

The falchion at her waist had no sheath, and it seemed to vanish as she waited in the shadows. The gleam of hellish fires dimly gleamed across her armour. Ice blue eyes glared out of her face, ready to win. Her fingernails were long, and looked to be fused to pointed fingertips by darkness. Shaidar Harann was as ready as she, cloaked in its shadows, devilish clipped tip waiting to taste blood. Its curse was her curse. Her hunger for power was its hunger. It had never occurred to her that this was slavery. It just meant winning to her now. It never occurred to her that she was bought and paid for. She saw only prizes.

Quite cool, she moved closer to the gate that would soon rise. She sensed the bloodlust out in the crowd, and could feel bets being placed. Lurking in the shadows, she knew they wanted the fight. They waited for Allgonell. They would chant for her. Chant for the Dark Eye. Her own eyes were pale, but as an emblem, she was an all-seeing, shadow-swatched entity that would hand out whatever wrath was given to her. Or, at least, so the talk was. So the crowd thought. The thorn tattooes encircling her wrists foreshadowed what wrath would be handed to her, perhaps a fortnight distant. But, not yet. Not tonight. Tonight she was fighting for sport like a gladiator of old. 

As the gate lifted, a hush fell on the cavern that housed the arena. Her aura bristled in pale blue and smoky purple, like some kind of otherworld tiger locked into her being. Stepping out to present herself to her audience, she merely walked forward, acknowledging them with her gaze as some cheered and some jeered. Oh, well. They would scream for her or cower.

Her next gesture was to draw the shape of an eye on her breastplate, the real confirmation of her identity. 

Knuckles popped and hands relaxed without pretence, she waited for her opponent.