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- Character Biography
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"There can be as many wrong reasons to do the right thing as there are stars in the sky. There might even be more than one legitimate right reason. But there is never a right reason to do the wrong thing. Not ever." -Aegis El'Sadaaweh
Raz was hot. Raz was wet. Raz was so muddy he doubted he looked like much more than a shapely pile of filth with eyes. But Raz, unlike his opponents, was at the very least standing on his own two feet.
“Come on, then,” he growled, circling the collapsed brothers as they struggled to free themselves of the sandy muck and each other.
“You call yourselves fighters? Maybe I should consider asking your mistress if she’ll let me take on the next group unarmed and blindfolded.”
It was meant to taunt the two gladiators. It worked like a charm.
“Damn lizard!” The first brother, a heavy man in a half helm and iron breastplate, cursed as he managed to shake himself free of his sibling. He had only one sword left of the two he’d started with, but regardless he charged Raz head-on, bringing the blade up with two hands for an overhead slash. Aiming for the vulnerable space between neck and shoulder, he let the steel fall, slicing down, going for the kill. What he found instead of flesh and bone, though, was air and dirt.
“Too slow,” Raz growled from beside him as the man stumbled forward behind his own impetus. Before the man could fall again, however, one clawed hand caught the back collar of his breastplate, the other slamming up to take the man in the abdomen. Sweeping the gladiator’s feet out from under him with a leg, Raz shoved upward, tossing the man into the air even as he continued forward. The result was a cumbersome front flip, ending when the man crashed hard to the pit floor on his back, from which he didn’t rise again. By now, though, the other fighter was back on his feet, and Raz turned to face him bare-handed. Smaller and leaner than his brother the one had the brains not to attempt to take his faster, stronger opponent in a rush. Instead he held back, finding good footing and hefting his long pike before him defensively.
“Ain’t coming to you, ya scaly bastard!” he shouted after spitting out a mouthful of mud. “You feel like bein’ skewered, you’re gonna have to come do it yerself.”
“I appreciate the warning,” Raz said with a shrug, following the pike holder's movements as the man started making a careful circle around him. “I’ve been poked full of holes plenty of times before, though. Don’t think another couple more is going to matter much.” Then he shot forward.
For a minute or two he let the gladiator believe he had a chance. For all intents and purposes the man was good with his pike, taking full advantage of its reach to keep a good distance between Raz and himself. Raz, for his part, dodged left and right and down as needed in rapid repetitions, allowing the iron point of the weapon to sneak within inches of his belly, legs, and shoulders. Had he had his spear, Verra, in his hands, or even his gladius, the pike or its wielder or both would have lost their head any number of times. While the blood might have won some people over, though, such a rapid end would have done little to please the crowd. Still, eventually the theatrics had to come to a close. As the pike weilder began to tire, Raz knew his dance would get obvious and boring. Therefore, the next time the pike was thrust outward a little too far, Raz stepped around and forward, making good use of old footwork to close the gap between their two bodies in a blink. His extended arm caught the lean man below the neck, clotheslining him so abruptly he hit the pit floor with no less force than his brother had. The pike followed a moment after, and the fight was done. Sound returned suddenly and sharply to Raz’s world. What he’d droned out during the fight came back in a single wave, riding along with the explosive cheering, hollering, and applause of ten thousand bodies taking to their feet in the stands above. Raz looked up, gazing into the crowd that commended him so fondly. All the while wondering if there might have been a time in his life, even not so long ago, that he might have enjoyed their praise. When the chanting started, Raz didn’t fight the frown. These men and women of the cities didn’t know him well enough yet to read his mood by his face, but even if they had he doubted they’d notice or care. Still, when the word became clear, rising in volume with every repetition, he felt the familiar angry tension building within him.
“RAZ! RAZ! RAZ! RAZ!” Over and over again they shouted it, feeding off their own bloodlust. When he finally had enough, when he felt the anticipation had built to the point of bursting, Raz raised a single hand in silent acknowledgement. The crowd exploded again, their roar trailing behind Raz as he turned his back on the pit, leaving behind the human brothers unconscious forms as he made for the rising portcullis that led to the Arena’s underworks.
Raz was hot. Raz was wet. Raz was so muddy he doubted he looked like much more than a shapely pile of filth with eyes. But Raz, unlike his opponents, was at the very least standing on his own two feet.
“Come on, then,” he growled, circling the collapsed brothers as they struggled to free themselves of the sandy muck and each other.
“You call yourselves fighters? Maybe I should consider asking your mistress if she’ll let me take on the next group unarmed and blindfolded.”
It was meant to taunt the two gladiators. It worked like a charm.
“Damn lizard!” The first brother, a heavy man in a half helm and iron breastplate, cursed as he managed to shake himself free of his sibling. He had only one sword left of the two he’d started with, but regardless he charged Raz head-on, bringing the blade up with two hands for an overhead slash. Aiming for the vulnerable space between neck and shoulder, he let the steel fall, slicing down, going for the kill. What he found instead of flesh and bone, though, was air and dirt.
“Too slow,” Raz growled from beside him as the man stumbled forward behind his own impetus. Before the man could fall again, however, one clawed hand caught the back collar of his breastplate, the other slamming up to take the man in the abdomen. Sweeping the gladiator’s feet out from under him with a leg, Raz shoved upward, tossing the man into the air even as he continued forward. The result was a cumbersome front flip, ending when the man crashed hard to the pit floor on his back, from which he didn’t rise again. By now, though, the other fighter was back on his feet, and Raz turned to face him bare-handed. Smaller and leaner than his brother the one had the brains not to attempt to take his faster, stronger opponent in a rush. Instead he held back, finding good footing and hefting his long pike before him defensively.
“Ain’t coming to you, ya scaly bastard!” he shouted after spitting out a mouthful of mud. “You feel like bein’ skewered, you’re gonna have to come do it yerself.”
“I appreciate the warning,” Raz said with a shrug, following the pike holder's movements as the man started making a careful circle around him. “I’ve been poked full of holes plenty of times before, though. Don’t think another couple more is going to matter much.” Then he shot forward.
For a minute or two he let the gladiator believe he had a chance. For all intents and purposes the man was good with his pike, taking full advantage of its reach to keep a good distance between Raz and himself. Raz, for his part, dodged left and right and down as needed in rapid repetitions, allowing the iron point of the weapon to sneak within inches of his belly, legs, and shoulders. Had he had his spear, Verra, in his hands, or even his gladius, the pike or its wielder or both would have lost their head any number of times. While the blood might have won some people over, though, such a rapid end would have done little to please the crowd. Still, eventually the theatrics had to come to a close. As the pike weilder began to tire, Raz knew his dance would get obvious and boring. Therefore, the next time the pike was thrust outward a little too far, Raz stepped around and forward, making good use of old footwork to close the gap between their two bodies in a blink. His extended arm caught the lean man below the neck, clotheslining him so abruptly he hit the pit floor with no less force than his brother had. The pike followed a moment after, and the fight was done. Sound returned suddenly and sharply to Raz’s world. What he’d droned out during the fight came back in a single wave, riding along with the explosive cheering, hollering, and applause of ten thousand bodies taking to their feet in the stands above. Raz looked up, gazing into the crowd that commended him so fondly. All the while wondering if there might have been a time in his life, even not so long ago, that he might have enjoyed their praise. When the chanting started, Raz didn’t fight the frown. These men and women of the cities didn’t know him well enough yet to read his mood by his face, but even if they had he doubted they’d notice or care. Still, when the word became clear, rising in volume with every repetition, he felt the familiar angry tension building within him.
“RAZ! RAZ! RAZ! RAZ!” Over and over again they shouted it, feeding off their own bloodlust. When he finally had enough, when he felt the anticipation had built to the point of bursting, Raz raised a single hand in silent acknowledgement. The crowd exploded again, their roar trailing behind Raz as he turned his back on the pit, leaving behind the human brothers unconscious forms as he made for the rising portcullis that led to the Arena’s underworks.