Sett, the Boss (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
themightybosstone) wrote2024-08-06 09:27 pm
themightybosstone) wrote2024-08-06 09:27 pm
Sett - LimeLight Info
✯
✯
✯
✯
Brocade
TEAM
Sun Sign
Sun Sign
AGE
35
35
HEIGHT
8' (with ears)
8' (with ears)
PRONOUNS
he/him
he/him
Appearance + Pings
Brocade is a brick shithouse. Dude is built and has made his life around BODY IMPROVEMENT. He moves like a fighter for those that can tell. All offense, no defense.
He has cat ears, sharp teeth, claws (retractable) and a long fluffy tail. Eventually will have golden, slitted eyes.
He will ping as half cat spirit as that unlocks.
He has cat ears, sharp teeth, claws (retractable) and a long fluffy tail. Eventually will have golden, slitted eyes.
He will ping as half cat spirit as that unlocks.
Limelight Info
Powers
Power 1: Scenses
Has a heightened sense of smell. If he concentrates hard on a specific point, he can narrow it to just that scent and heighten it further, but it does require some willpower. Otherwise it's blessing AND a curse!! OPT IN!! He can detect vague emotions with it, but must be close and probably vaguely familiar with the person.
Power 2: Eye of the Tiger
Brocade can turn into a cat! This is a variable level depending on his mood and interest. He can either grow out his fangs or claws. He can sharpen his hearing or vision. Or turn entirely into a cat. This can be an ORANGE LONGHAIR HOUSECAT or a SETT SIZED TIGER. He's WAY faster in cat form.
Power 3: Telekittynesis
Can move any object he sets his sight on by WILL ALONE. For smaller objects, he can move several of the same type/size at a time. For anything moving, it takes a lot more concentration, and someone who struggles hard enough can break free (battle of the wills basically). Yeet and yoink, basically.
Has a heightened sense of smell. If he concentrates hard on a specific point, he can narrow it to just that scent and heighten it further, but it does require some willpower. Otherwise it's blessing AND a curse!! OPT IN!! He can detect vague emotions with it, but must be close and probably vaguely familiar with the person.
Power 2: Eye of the Tiger
Brocade can turn into a cat! This is a variable level depending on his mood and interest. He can either grow out his fangs or claws. He can sharpen his hearing or vision. Or turn entirely into a cat. This can be an ORANGE LONGHAIR HOUSECAT or a SETT SIZED TIGER. He's WAY faster in cat form.
Power 3: Telekittynesis
Can move any object he sets his sight on by WILL ALONE. For smaller objects, he can move several of the same type/size at a time. For anything moving, it takes a lot more concentration, and someone who struggles hard enough can break free (battle of the wills basically). Yeet and yoink, basically.
Limelight AU
Sett had a bit of a time doing some MMA prize fighting, but got out of it after a few title fights (and their delicious prize monies) under his belt. He took his winnings and actually invested them, starting a little coffee shop that eventually became a cat cafe. It is called Little Meowcenaries. (He keeps taking in strays and renovated the place after a while.) CAT LIST. THANK YOU ASH!
It's in a little boutique and trendy area of Manteau City. Makes a mean latte, a divine milkshake and the sandwich options are pretty good too.
He's divorced. Thanks Ruan Mei. His sister is Purrpurra. Plotting thread here.
It's in a little boutique and trendy area of Manteau City. Makes a mean latte, a divine milkshake and the sandwich options are pretty good too.
He's divorced. Thanks Ruan Mei. His sister is Purrpurra. Plotting thread here.
Permissions
SHIPPING
yes
yes
SMUT
yes/FTB welcome!
yes/FTB welcome!
VIOLENCE
yes!!!!!!
yes!!!!!!
KILLING
yes hmu
yes hmu
Player Comfort Notes
Squicks: Please no non-con or pregnancy plots. No loving descriptions of joint breaks, emeto (Simple action okay!! don't like, describe smell and texture), NO pet death/animal torture at all thanks.
Okay: Gore, death, most difficult topics not covered above. Negative CR. If you need a villain rope me in! Threadjumping is always welcome! Comedy!! Fourth walling. All good.
Okay: Gore, death, most difficult topics not covered above. Negative CR. If you need a villain rope me in! Threadjumping is always welcome! Comedy!! Fourth walling. All good.
code by puddings
Character Canon
League of Legends
League of Legends
Player
Nishi
Nishi
Contact
YourOverlord (Plurk & Discord)
YourOverlord (Plurk & Discord)
DM Policy
chat anytime!!!
chat anytime!!!
Memories
Memory 2. The Dame. Blood.
Brocade stands on a high viewing box over a sand pit. Elegant trees have wrought themselves into graceful, curving architecture, giving way to benches and fences, to luxirious box seating.
Every space from top to bottom in the massive stadium is filled with people, the roar of excitement over bloodshed shakes the odd, glowing lights dancing around.
People seem to come in all different shapes and species. While many look human, there's almost more who seem different in some way. Touched by the wild magic thrumming through the land. Others are bestial, like Brocade himself.
A woman with skin like the evening sky and rams horns leans against the rail, eyes bright and gleeful as another contender below falls to the odd, segmented whip of another.
And a man with crows legs and nods slightly as Brocade, taken from the energy of the crowd, finally starts to crackle to life.
He slams his foot down on the railing, shaking it down to the foundation. The crowd hushes and then ROARS as light crackles around him.]
COME ON YOU LOSERS! THINK YOU GOT IT??
I'M THE BOSS HERE.
[When he joins the free for all brawl below, the thousands of throats cry out in exultation as the betting offices close. It was time to make some money.
And the Boss never looked happier.]
Taken
Memory 3. The Diviner. Snowglobe.
Back home, they called it a blight. A scar on the First Lands of the invaders. Today, a half beast slinks down it, sniffing the air, little stub tail flicking. He's got the gangly look of a boy half grown in, lean from hard work and not nearly enough food. He hardly looks in place around this... nearly all human crowd. Muscles, height and brutal turns of phrase.
He doesn't stop anywhere though. He doesn't have the password to the ring, and not enough money to pay his way into the Pits. So he climbs, claws scrabbling on the walls until he makes his way into a high window once used to drop oil, fire and arrows from above.
Inside was... decadence beyond his wildest dreams. Food and wine, cards and dice, but none of it had more of a call than the roar of bloodlust. This posture still runs low, slinking somewhere between guilt of being here at all but the smell of something so good.
The fights are brutal but electric. The men, women and beasts fought until only one stood, blood staining the sand. The roars soaked into his chest. They set his fur on edge. He was entranced.
He was in love.
He shakes his head and slinks back again, asking around as the blood drunk spectators begin to file back out.
"Eh, you heard about him?" An old man raises a brow and shakes his head as the half beast asks about his father.
A hardened woman with one glass eye spins a dagger on the table. "Oh that old slab of meat." She barks a laugh. "Why you looking?"
Brocade straightens, ears pricked up. He tries to keep himself calm. "He owes me a debt."
She snorts. "Bet he does." She rolls back in her chair. "Bet he does. You're too late though."
"He dead?" Brocade asks, voice heavy. Maybe a little resigned.
"Dead? HA. Maybe." She slaps her thigh, as if it was a particularly good joke. "He might have met his match yet. Nah, he won off his debt and cut. Said he needed something better than anything we had here."
Brocade freezes. She says something... She says something else. Then something else. She even calls after him but she doesn't hear it. The words are like waves, crashing against a beach for all the sense he can make of them. You cant feel the rage, but it's obvious, the way the teen balls up, the way his claws have slices holes into his hands, the loud grinding of his fangs and teeth.
He shoves his way roughly through to the main floor, finding the pit boss.
"I want in."
"You?" the man looks him up and down, obviously seeing nothing more than a little scrap. "Ah, the new champion of Qayanvi, huh?"
"Shut it. I want in." He growls, grabbing one of the papers.
"Sign at the bottom, lil beast boy. I'll see you have a good next fight."
Taken.
Started to feel real
Increase in temper
Memory 4 - Dancer. Feather. Entertainment
“Who’s watchin’ the till?” I ask.
Sherap—the stick of a man taking weapons at the door—looks at me with bug eyes, scared he’s done somethin’ wrong.
“Ryo. Ryo’s on the till tonight,” he says.
“Get two more on it,” I tell him.
It’s a big night—lot of spenders. Last thing I need is some lowlife makin’ off with the profit.
Sherap scurries off. A couple seconds later he comes back with two of my heaviest hitters. After they join Ryo at the coin box, I check back on the action in the arena. The place is packed, crammed to the doors with nobodies, somebodies, and everyone in between—people with nothin’ much in common, except a hankering for blood. And they’re about to get it.
My star combatant, Prahn the Flayer, has just finished his long, sauntering entrance. His chiseled body is painted entirely green, and he wears a small buckler on his left forearm. His infamous whip sword, painted to look like a viper, remains coiled on his belt as he enters the pit to face his opponent. The challenger—some Shuriman guy… is it Faran? Farrel? I’ll learn his name if he wins—stares a hole in him, his hands up by his shoulders, itching to grab the twin daggers sheathed on his back. He’s come halfway around the world for this, and he’ll be damned if some local golden boy is going to show him up.
With a wave of the pit officer’s scarf, our show is on. The fighters circle each other in the center of the floor. Always the entertainer, Flayer draws the whip sword and snaps it all around his body. (He’s one of about eight people in the world who can do this without cutting his own face off, and he loves to show it off.)
Insulted by the taunt, the Shuriman draws his daggers. He sprints across the pit, throwing himself into a whirl of blades, slicing the wind at unnatural angles. Flayer is surprised, but not off guard. He parries a dagger with his buckler, throwing the Shuriman off balance for a split second.
It feels like an eternity. The Shuriman’s body is turned off kilter, hands by his waist, his entire torso a wide-open target.
In a single, fluid movement, the Flayer swings his whip sword clean across the throat of his opponent. The Shuriman drops to the floor in a growing pool of his own blood. The crowd erupts.
“How’s that till?!” I shout to the boys in the back.
“Got it, boss!” replies Sherap, as the eager throngs swarm the vestibule to settle their bets.
Back down on the floor, I see the pit crew loading the Shuriman onto the corpse cart. A few feet away, Flayer celebrates with some of his fans. He’s got a look on his face. I know it well. It’s not relief. Not contentment. He’s getting a big head, and it’s going to be bad news.
About an hour later, the crowd has gone home, and the till has been emptied and counted. Just when I’m saying goodnight to the crew, guess who stops me at the door?
It’s the Flayer. He’s holding a fat bag of coin, but he don’t look happy. Says he’s got a bone to pick. Here we go.
I ask him what’s the problem. He just won big in front of a record-breaking crowd. He says that’s just it: he drew a record-breaking crowd. He should get a cut of the till. My till.
Now, I understand where he’s coming from—same place I was coming from when I took over this whole thing. But just ’cause I understand what a fella wants don’t mean I gotta give it to him. I tell the Flayer no.
Then the guy blows up. He starts telling me how lucky I am to have him in my pit.
“Do you know how many people in the world can do what I do?” he asks. “Nine!”
“Nine. Huh. Guess they must’ve added one,” I say.
He keeps mouthing off, says I’ve gotten fat and don’t remember what it’s like to risk my neck in the pit. By this point, a bunch of my crew is starting to listen in. Seeing how I can’t have people thinking I’m soft, I figure it’s a good time to remind Flayer who’s the boss, and who’s the employee. But he’s not havin’ it.
“You’re just some washed-up ex-champ in a fur coat, tellin’ us real fighters what to do,” he says. “Anybody could do your job.”
That does not sit well with me. I tell Flayer we can go toe-to-toe in the pit, and he’ll find out just how much of a fighter I still am. I guess at this point he feels like he can’t back down, because he accepts my offer.
“If I win, I take your pit. And all that comes with it,” he says.
I nod. He waits, like he’s expecting me to add my own stipulations. As if he’s got anything I’d want.
All I ask is that we do it in front of a crowd.
“Let’s get paid for it.”
Re: Memory 4 - Dancer. Feather. Entertainment
I walk out to the pit, drums beating, crowd roaring, and see the Flayer standing across from me—green and hot-headed as ever. My vastayan sense of decency kicks in. I tell him all he’s got to do is tell this arena full of people how wrong he was to disrespect me, and we can call off the fight.
He spits on the ground and angrily cracks his whip sword overhead. He ain’t backin’ down.
By the time the pit official waves his scarf, the Flayer is halfway across the floor. He flings his whip sword at me, and before I can react, the shifty little cuss takes off a piece of my cheek. He snaps it a couple more times, coming dangerously close to my throat. Then, while I’m trying to deal with his weird, floppy blade, he nails me in the face with his buckler. I land flat on my back, seeing double.
He draws his whip sword back. We’re not even a minute into this, and already Flayer is going for the kill.
This ain’t happening.
His blade comes lashing at my neck once more, and this time I grab it. With my bare hand. Flayer’s eyes bulge from his dumb green face.
My blood gets pumping. My hair stands on end. I feel a little growl escape from the corner of my mouth. I barely feel the blade cutting into my palm, or the blood running down my forearm, as I stand and pull the Flayer by his sword, yanking him into my other fist.
I repeat the motion a few more times, my brass knuckle-duster chewin’ his face to pulp.
When I finally stop punching, he coughs out a tooth, and tells me I’m making the biggest mistake of my life.
“What’re you doing? I’m your biggest draw,” he says.
“Flayer, you’re losing to a washed-up ex-champ. Who’s going to pay to see you fight now?”
With his last ounce of energy, he hocks a big mouthful of blood into my face—right there in front of the gods and everybody.
I can’t have an arena full of people thinkin’ I’m not the boss.
So I pick the guy up by the throat, and slam him, hard as I can, smashing his greedy fat head deep into the floor of the pit. He twitches for a second, then stops.
The crowd eats it up.
Re: Memory 4 - Dancer. Feather. Entertainment
She wakes, and smiles at the sight of her boy standing there at her bedside. As I touch her cheek, she notices the bandage on my hand—where I grabbed the Flayer’s blade.
“Oh, Settrigh, what happened?” she says, all concerned.
“Nothin’ big. Just cut myself building,” I say.
“What did you build today, son?” she asks.
“An orphanage. For orphans, ma,” I say, as I give her one last kiss goodnight.
“Such a good boy,” she says.
Her eyes tear up as she drifts off to sleep, like she’s proud knowing her son’s making a respectable living.
Taken
Scar on cheek and palm
Major increase in temper
Memory 5 - Doctor. Ring with catseye quartz. Beheading
Never stopped you before. Wasn't going to stop you now.
The kid was fast too. You swung a good ol' one-two, and both were dodged. Floating between his arms.
Hm. Annoying. Still wasn't going to be enough though.
You feel the kid's hits and can't help but grin through the blood. They weren't nothing. Little jabs and stabs. You eat them for breakfast. You magic devours them, pouring red hot pain into power.
Little more now. Just a little more.
"Come onnnn. This all you got? Pathetic." You sneer. The crowds love a lil posturing.
The kid didn't though. You feel your knee hit the ground even before you register the kick at the back of your knee.
"Bigger they are," The kid starts to quip. He's still damn fast. Before you can get your hands up, their dagger is turned, and he drives the knife in. He probably meant to put it between your ears, but you aren't dumb. You snapped your head back. The dagger sinks into your cheek and nose, a waterfall of blood starting to pour down your throat. "The harder they f-"
Your skin lights golden, that last cut enough. You've had enough. YOU'VE HAD ENOUGH.
The gold soaks your vision, guides your rage. Something bestial takes you- like it always does. The crowd roars, but hey, so does your pulse. Hard to tell 'em apart.
You take the bastard's head off with your bare hands. You don't have time for anything else.
You walk all the way to the back with your trademark swagger. From the seats, they can't see you swallowing blood as fast as you can to keep from choking on it. The only one to see you collapse was your most trusted crew.
Good. Meant you'd wake up tomorrow.
Taken
Facial scar
Increase in temper
Colder outlook
Memory 6 - Diviner. Plush Cat. Festival
Spirit blossoms swirl through the air, glowing in the early dusk. You try to catch one or two with a laugh.
Out by the trees were the mourning and hopeful, waiting to hear from their loved ones. Hoping for a last reassurance, a last offering, a goodbye or a settled debt. You couldn't care less. The spirits thrum in the air, whirling on the wind like those blossoms. But you didn't care for anything of the dead, all of YOUR problems were still alive.
And frankly, all of your problems could wait until tomorrow.
The sizzling of bird meat and sweet spices drifted by your nose. You could sit with the other children and watch the shadow shows. You could play the games with the other children, who only cared that you could catch nearly anything thrown.
You clambered up a tree, bare feet and claws clinging to the bark, listening to one of the storytellers speak of the Spirit Realm, the Kanmei and Akana and their eternal struggle, and the help and harm they pose to the wandering souls.
One catches your ear- the spirit of Challenge, a spirit both Kanmei and Akana, accepted by neither. He was on a long journey of vengeance of the elusive Akana that wronged him. He will never find him. He will never get home. But he will never stop trying. A danger to all the spirits in his path, he offers them a challenge, judging their worth with his fists.
... No one built shrines to the spirit, they don't burn offerings to him. But to the departed, to give them the strength and tenacity to stand if they meet him.
As the story turns on to the Fox who guides the way, you lean in the boughs of the tree. You can't help but imagine him. Big and strong but still lonely. Maybe you'll make one later... give some offerings to him for once.
Maybe he'll make it home.
Taken
A few Ionian languages and rituals/folk tales
The story of Spirit Blossom Sett
Knowledge of a few children's games and the rules of a few dice/bones games
Memory 7 - Dixie. Ouija Board. Ghosts
Everywhere you look is comforting finery. Silks and statues, polished wood and locked coffers. The trappings of the empire you build, and you sit here amidst it. King. No, better than that. The Boss.
But some things? Some things never changed.
The fucking drudgery.
Your fingers massage circles into your brow as you pour over the intel reports from Meg, the books from Lise, scrawled notes from Kolo. Uuuuggh. You had the best. You KEPT the best, but man. Some things only you could do and frankly, what a fucking pain.
The reports of pressures from the northern coast were going to cut into profits. You were going to have to come up with something good to keep asses in the seats if the pressure came on. Yeah, sure, it was a lot, but it didn't excuse the fact that YOUR ears didn't pick up footsteps.
It was a little string- gossamer webbing, nearly invisible but stronger than anyone would give credit- broke. The little bell chimes.
To the invader's credit, they stilled, but didn't flee.
It took every showmaster's impulse to have not jumped, though your heart skipped a beat. Pale bastard was a hairsbreadth from you. Deliberately slowly, you lift your chin, straightening to stare straight at the would-be-attacker.
"Usually, people sign up downstairs if they want to get their skull caved in." You drawl.
The man's eyes narrow but he didn't say anything. His garb was an assassin's for sure. He didn't recognize the faction, but there wasn't mistaking the set of his feet, the coiled posture. The man was a knife. Who's?
"Well?" You tilt the wine in your goblet and take another sip. He smells like blood, something bitter and acrid. Plant poisons. Hmm. Will have to watch your food and drink from here on. "Make your move."
The assassin doesn't answer. Instead, there's a shimmering of cold magic. It's blue and silver to your nose. Smells like a winter night. His outline quivers and a woman- just as pale, just as reserved, seems to swirl up around his shoulders, whispering something in his ear.
He frowns slightly, and reaches into his cloak.
(Ah, there it is. You feel your fangs sharpen a bit. You fist clenches and you get ready to break your desk over this little slip of a man.)
He moves like a snake. Fast. Brutal. Deadly. ... Dropping a hefty bag of coin on your desk.
"... Huh." You loosen your fist, and one of your ears lifts, regarding the twins. "Well. Chatty, I'm listening now."
Taken
Golden eyes, slitted
Memory 8 - SunSign Event. Orange, Glowing Star. Soothing
It is a simple sort of lullaby, talking about hard times passing and a bright future. She smiles at you, her slitted eyes warm as she brushes her clawed fingers through your hair.
It lulls you to sleep.
You're safe.
You're warm.
You're loved.
Changes
Memory 9 - Showmaster. Figurine. Apathy
"We can't just sit here an' do nothing!" One shouts, his fists balled.
"Damn right, there's money to be made." Another snickers, her tail swaying.
"Patience will yield a better harvest." The old man opines, his feathers smooth.
"Oh shove it, Bingwen. I LIVE there." The first hisses back. "The Noxians have boots on the ground and laying oil now."
"I'm aware. But we are talking business, not affairs."
"Are you SHITTING me? The armies are going to march RIGHT up the flatlands. The Sea of Grasses is wilting with whatever they're doing."
"Can I leave?" Another sighs, filing her nails.
Your chair creaks as you shift to lean forward. It's a small sound, but you're pleased at how it silences the room. Eight pairs of eyes turn to you. Ears perk, fur lifts. Even the bookkeeper stills her work. But that's as far as your pleasure goes.
"Lise." The old arachnid woman lifts her head, her wizened face scrutinizing yours. "Use the emergency fund to buy out whatever grain you can get right now. Prices are about to get steep. Lets get ahead of it."
The mixed emotions of your underlings bounce right off your skin.
"Get kitchens ready to go in the slums. Fuller stomachs will mean tighter lips. The rest? Squeeze 'em."
"Boss, I-"
"Get out of here. Scram. Meeting's over."
Taken
Colder outlook
Memory 10 - (???) Chain Letter.
There were easily as many agendas, if not twice that. You'd seen the kiting the cocky Noxian bountyhunters did in the crowd. You'd clocked the old codger trying to slip his noose. Like every event, the pros were just trying to earn their take. The gate crashers from Bilgewater was far less common, but still nothing to get worked up about.
Frankly, if the plans weren't on YOUR money, then you couldn't give two shits about it.
- or so you thought.
The leader of the Bilgewater group suddenly froths, screaming with rage and bloodlust. He seems to expand, muscles rippling as he grows to three or four times his size. One fist from the shark vastaya slams into the pit floor, leaving a crater, and the other casually rips one of your contenders in half.
Jack. You recall it now, leaning forward. His name was Jack.
You stand up - taking some joy in hearing the shock ripple through the crowd, and then the uproar of cheers as his intention is clear. You slam your fists together, and let the bloodlust take you.
"I'd like t'thank ya. Shame I'm gonna be doin' it with my fists."
You leap from the box, power crackling under your skin, golden glow responding to your emotions. The lightweights cower away. Good. You unleash that force in a violent wave, shattering stone and tearing into the shark man's flank.
He staggers, but straightens, blood pouring unnoticed down his side. That monstrous fist winds up and unleashes at you.
You're so happy you could cry.
A goddamn CHALLENGE.
FINALLY.
TAKEN
Scars on body, limbs.
Bloodlust increase
Memory 11 - Dameiurge. Squeezy Heart. Heartbreak
Maybe that he was going to take the information you'd finally dished out and invite you along. You'd have a grand adventure. Maybe there'd be a confession or two. Maybe you'd settle down. See about freeing his sister from - whatever was going on there. Retire. Adopt children together.
Shit.
You are getting soft.
Soft.
Stupid.
You're a goddamned idiot.
Phel leaves without a look back. Off to whatever fucking important mission had him here anyway. His sister, her ghostly presence nearly solid this close to the Spirit Blossom Festival, is the one who glances back. She opens her mouth to say something. But then bows her head drifting in the assassin's wake.
You know you're never going to see them again.
Gods. It hurt like nothing you'd ever felt before.
Maybe you SHOULD kill him. Maybe you'll feel better.
But they're gone.
Even that opportunity is lost.
TAKEN
+++ Abandonment issues
Memory 12. The Dealer. Card deck. Risk taking.
Coins hit the sand around you, glittering in arcs from the benches. A tradition from the Noxian nobles, and you could make out in the corner of your eyes the scramble of the lower class sections when a coin's arc didn't quite make it to the arena.
You didn't scrape the sand. Someone else was out, scrambling for the coins.
Some would even make it to your pocket.
But not all of them.
Lately, you've been thinking: That's a problem.
Sure, as you swagger back to the double gates, you were making top coin. Drums built a fever beat behind you as money changed hands at the tills. You kept your momma in good clothes. You have an actual home now, instead of a stinking mat with 30 other workers. You ate whatever the hell you wanted, fresh and not stolen.
But... it's only a cut.
Those crowds were yours. They came to see you. Beast Man Bastard. Everyone hoping today would be the day you'd go down in blood and bruises, choking in the dirt and sand.
Sure. Keep betting.
But the real money was in the betting. In the drinks. The food. The tickets. The merch. The kickbacks from the local vendors. The skim from the gambling. The take from setting the matches.
You could be doing better.
Your momma would never have to work shit jobs again. Never come back home, hungry and bruised.
You could own the place where you'll kill your old man. Consecrate it in his blood.
So today, you're feeling it. The match didn't take that much out of you. Nah, you were just sore enough. The beating you'd taken had been devoured by your magic, and now surged in your blood, set your eyes alight and gave your fur an otherworldly golden glow.
You looked as dangerous as you are. That was going to be important. He'd seen a lot of this kind of attempt go sideways.
You slam open the door to the organizers' room. They look up and read the mood, the pressure coming off you. You grin as they give you a set of slimy, nervous smiles. One motions for their meatheads to close the door behind you. Sure. Can't say you aren't fair about it now.
They offer you your cut. It's a lil bag of coin. Barely the size of your fist.
You knew the room behind them was nothing but gold and finery. The REAL take. Most of it? YOU made.
"Nah. I want half."
"Half? Half this bag?"
"Half the take. This is me bein' nice."
They laugh. They go to have you thrown out. Say you aren't working for them no more. They can't have a hothead around. The meathead goes to drag you out.
You drive your fist nearly halfway through the guy's head. Shame. Folla wasn't a bad dude. But he shoulda left. He knew what you could do. He collapses and you step over his body.
They cower. They promise you half. They promise you death. They say they're gonna kill your momma and everyone who ever knew you.
You weren't feeling too generous anymore.
The thing about pit fighting is a good 75% of the shows? You aren't aiming to kill the other guy. Maim a lil bit? Sure. That's a show. But you never know who you can salvage. And a good comeback narrative fills the seats. You don't do near as much neck breaking as you could. Or even as much as you used to as the up and coming fighter.
So you know how to pull your punches these days.
You break some ribs instead. Shatter some cheekbones. Throw a few of em around. You know, kids glove stuff. You need em alive.
Then, while the crowd is still there, still cashing in chips and enjoying the exhibition matches, you throw them all out into the ring.
You watch, arms folded, as they slur a new truth around whatever teeth the poor bastards got left.
You were the boss now. It was your pit.
And it was just going to be the beginning. You had PLANS.
Taken
Increase risk taking
Increase violence as an Answer
Memory 13. The Dame. Bandaid. Lie or a confession.
Over blood and guts and broken necks. You knew how things went. The first matches drew real blood. This was supposed to be staged. Drama that played out like operas in a way. Everyone had a role and a character.
The show while the betting wound down and the money changed hands, the dinners started.
You'd finally gotten your way into this echelon. It was where the pay really was, and the safety, especially if you became a crowd favorite.
Which didn't explain why the hoof grinding into your chest has just snapped a rib. Or the blow to your face just had the force the bull beastman could put into it. The bovine face curls into a sneer. He comes real close, so nothing carries. Just the atmosphere of tension.
"From the handlers, with love." He says. Who knows what the audience thinks it was. Hell maybe the handlers will make some scorned romance bullshit. But YOU know.
You were being taken out, not given a pay raise. A little life cut down to make the show richer. You've outgrown your draw in the Pit.
Fuck them. Fuck him. Fuck this place. You weren't going to die here. Your momma wasn't gonna cry tonight.
You barely felt where the blade went in, or the second crack of bones.
And THAT was the moment that you finally felt it. The thing your kind is supposed to just know. The FEEL for the world, the magic in it.
But all you knew was the pain and hurt and rage of it. That was fine. You could use that. More than any meditation or attunement, any oneness. THIS was the world, and you understood it. You could use it.
You did. The damage became strength. Your skin hardens, your bones heal.
The magic of the very world itself flows brightly through your veins and your skin, turning you golden, like a small sun pinned under a hoof.
The crowds are silent for once. Rivetted, as you grab that ankle and lift. You rip him up off of you, and as you the damage quickly knits, you drag the monsterously huge man into the air and slam him back down into the ground, shattering his prized horns.
As he's dazed, you step up onto his back and take your fucking bow.
Coins rain down, the approval for your bit in a roar.
Your keen eyes spot it though, the signal from the booth, switching from kill to keep.
You were going to walk out today.
But you weren't safe here neither. You weren't going to be. Not til YOU were making the calls. And one day? One day SOON, it was gonna be.
TAKEN
New scars on chest, shoulders and back
Maybe gets glowy when he's taken enough damage, but no using the magic until skill unlocks. Cosmetic.
Memory 14. Showmaster. Flipbook. Stories or Experiments
As the flipbook fans, the man leans forward and you-
The fight was a usual one. Kolo was doing well. Your star. She always knew how to really work up the crowds before the headline match. She was doing a hell of a job this evening, the spray from breaking that mooks face nearly went three feet AND had just a great fanning in the air.
Damn the crowds ate that shit up. The hollaring shuddered the walls, and you just KNEW they were going to open their pockets wide for the main match. Not to mention all of the luxuries available, and waiting, for the patrons as they filed out.
It's the sudden confused muting. A muttering that rippled like a rock thrown into still water. The cheers came down to conversation and gasps, and it took your ear and put your fur on edge.
You scowl down as the bloodied meathead on the ground finishes drinking some bright, shining purple fluid.
The crowds are so quiet now you can hear not only his scream but the CRUNCH of his bones.
You get up from your throne. Whatever the fuck sorcery this is... you aint sure you want it here. It smells RANK, foul and wrong. Like a sewer sitting stagnant, warping something in the spirit.
The meathead's muscles bulged, frame expanded and twisted-
You signal to Kolo to fall back.
As the monster stands up, frothing something acidic to the bloodied sand, you leap from your platform.
You aint sure if this is an opportunity or a blight, but like hell you were risking your best performer on it.
NOT TAKEN
More awareness of global politics and the workings of the Pit
Acid burn on the left thigh
- bloodlust, + canny patience