Vincente, Violetta Vega

[Violetta Vega Vicente]

“Suck it and see.”

Name: Vincente, Violetta Vega // Kali // Burilgi (Destroyer) // Vachir (thunderbolt) Venicones, Sloane Shanach B’ar
Age: 4000 something, obviously she looks better than a pile of dust though.
Gender: Female
Birthday: July 17th
Height: 6ft even
Weight: Optimal.
Eye color: Blue
Hair color: Black

Rank: Segunda

Constitution
-Strength 10
-Endurance 20
Dexterity
-Agility 30
-Accuracy 20
Resurrección
-Attack 20
-Defense 10
Natural Abilities
-Offensive 20
-Defensive 10
Perception
-Intelligence 20
-Concentration 15
Presence
-Charisma 10
-Leadership 15

“If the shoe fits, wear it bitch.”

[/b][/center]

Once you’ve seen her, you will not forget the image. Her appearance straddles the thin line between beauty and terrifying, as with her uncouth persona, she can either horrify or delight with a quirk of the lips or a challenging up tilt of the head. As old as she is, she had not changed with the times, hesitant to follow in the steps of her fellows, disbelieving in that she should change that which she believes to be perfection. Appearance to Violetta is measured only with how it can affect others to her benefit. She is not someone who can blend in with the background but someone who can hang back, whilst still demanding attention. Over the years, she had cultivated her particular brand of badassery, and with each passing century, she has become scarier. There is an arrogance behind her eyes, one that is present in almost every confrontation and interaction, but it is not something that she has to actively maintain. It just is.

Unlike Alejo, her’s is an appearance that can shake someone to their core. She thrives on disruption, and when she catches others giving her a second glance, or eyeing her wearily, she relishes it. Hers is a shit eating grin, one that boasts an ego larger than most others combined, a self satisfaction that is otherworldly, a look that many would like to smack off of her face. She commands a presence of dominance but it cannot simply be attributed to her rank, Violetta is a force of nature, and like nature, she is not to be trifled with. Such a thing is clear just by looking at her, it is not hard for others to believe she is the Segunda, neither is it hard for them to understand her cruelty. If you’re on the other team, and she’s honing in on you, it may be time to turn and run.

Hers is a domineering presence, a predatory air that overwhelms, something that is perpetuated by the sheer size of her form. Violetta stands tall at a solid 6ft, though her hair adds on another inch or so. She is not a delicate flower, as can be seen from the musculature of her limbs. Legs as shapely as any other self respecting seasoned arse kicker, scrawny would not be a term generally used to describe them. They hold much of her power, strengthened by years of stamping out nuisances. Thankfully, they manage to retain their power without the cost of looking unsightly and rippling with veins, they still have the appearance of being rock solid though, and their strength is best indicated when she is in movement. To continue the robust trend, her arms are just as well sculpted, formed that way from years of lugging a spear around, conditioning her upper body to match the strength of her legs. She has a nicely rounded set of shoulders, capable of holding up the weight of the world should she find herself in a self sacrificing mood and of course, there is her bust to consider. It may cause some distraction for others, but Violetta simply sees them as being there. She is not particularly modest in the way she dresses, but has managed to cover them up somewhat if not just so meetings with her fellow Espada can go along faster without the inevitable awkward moment.

So far, we’ve established that she’s tall and has boobs. Her frame is not waif-like, but more rounded and powerful, a difficult weight to budge by anyone’s standards. It gives her a look of immovability, makes her look rooted to the spot she stands upon and, most importantly, reminds people that she cannot be pushed around. Her foundations are not too dissimilar to any other humanoid archtype, this one has all the same ingredients as any other, she’s got two eyes, spaced evenly apart, ghosted a cool, panty dropping blue hue. Blue eyes are all the same, but the sparkle to these particular peepers is undeniably Violetta. A lot can be conveyed in just a look from her, words need not be spoken, but they are anyway just to drive the message home and provide some witty commentary. It’s easy to tell when she’s angry, like really angry, but most assume she’s generally pissed off anyway. That’s not the case, Violetta just seems to have a certain aura of badassery that is almost tangible, besides smiling only helps to make her look deranged and whilst that has its own certain advantages at times, it can fool others into thinking she’s insane. She may be, but Violetta likes to be taken seriously, or not at all.

Beyond her ‘prepare to be thoroughly raided,’ glint to the eye, Violetta also has a regular ole’ nose right in the middle of her face. There’s nothing special about her nose, but nothing notable is probably what you’d want out of a nose. It’s not big, it’s not upturned like a piggy’s and it’s not crooked like her character. It’s just, y’know, there and for breathing. A side note about it would be mentioning that her left nostril is pierced, with a particularly jagged stud. This has always been a feature of her particular design, a remnant of her tribal days. Underneath that you will find her mouth, which is usually situated beneath the nose and should be composed of two lips, some gnashers, a tongue and provides Violetta with many magical talents. Before the watershed, those magical talents largely include speaking her special brand of wisdom and after the watershed, things take a turn for the parental advisory rating. Swearing. Shouting. Fighting. Loving. All gain a particular edge when she uses what God gave her. I guess a lip piercing would be something of note about her appearance, a sister piercing to the one in her nose. There are many styles of lip rings, but Violetta’s is the ole’faithful loop’dah’loop. Just a silver piece of crap that makes her look just that bit more like a seasoned ball busting bitch of a bitch.

Her face has further notable aspects, there’s the impossibly high arch of her eyebrows, the kind that only the smuggest of individuals are born with and the cosmetic additions of blue warpaint smeared across her cheek and her eyes are outlined in charcoal black ash, helping to highlight the come hither and die glow to her eyes and her murderous intent. Her skin tone is darker than your average bear, but not quite so dark as her compatriot Alejo. Hers is a earthy brown tone, taken from the mountainous tundra terrain of where she was born. It dictates her natural colourings and her hair falls into the same dark territory, it’s a charcoal black and quite unruly. Violetta is not so inclined as to make herself presentable for others, neither does she preen herself for hours, in fact, it can be said that she hasn’t even so much as brushed her hair in a long time. It has numerous layers, each uneven in length, and is quite dishevelled. She only ever goes so far as to make sure it’s out of her face, and she does this in a rather stylish manner (according to her). The hair that would cover her eyes is pulled back and sits atop her head like some kind of faux Mohawk, held in place by the horns of her mask. It gives her both an interesting profile, and a frightening look. Some hair is left to its own devices, to frame her face while a crown of animal teeth holds the rest back. At the back, the gathered hair is allowed to bounce free and clings to Violetta like a cloak. It is a mess of black and while it’s definitely high maintenance, it’s clear Violetta rarely set’s aside much time to tame it.

We’re not finished with her yet though. Nope. Another distinguishing feature of our illustrious Segunda would be her highly tattooed canvas. Much of her upper body is covered in black ink, simplistic in design though it does incorporate some patterns. One of which would be a henna design on each of her shoulders, an indication as to which cultures mythology she has cornered. Her arms too each have black bands tattooed on them, of varying widths. On her legs, the trend continues with more black bands and some small circles. Each of her hips has a black inked hollow circle tattooed upon them, the circle being a symbol of karma to her peoples.

As for her particular Espada traits, she stands out as somewhat unique with her barbarian style uniform. It is not too dissimilar to what she wore whilst blazing a trail across Europe back in her prime. Each shoulder is encased in two overlapping steel structures, simple armour that has stood the test of time. Their surface is marred with many indentations from any number of instruments of death and destruction. They help to exaggerate just how broad her shoulders actually are and are instrumental when it comes to keeping her flowing, torn cloak in place. Two thick leather bands cross her chest, discreetly placed to cover over the oh so offensive nipple regions, a thin wispy length of white fabric hangs down from them. Their neckline is extremely low, bearing a good amount of side boob as it meets in the middle in a “V,” shape. The fabric cannot be described as a shirt, as it is attached only to the leather bands and doesn’t cloth her entire upper body. The upper most part of her back is covered in a short length of the same fabric, but most of her upper body can be seen clearly. She lacks modesty, but considering that she’s heavily tattoed up top, she doesn’t really feel the sting of being truly scantily clad. Some sleeves of chain mail hang down over her upper arms from beneath her armoured shoulder pads, they can be quite chaffing against such soft skin, which is why they sit upon a protective layer of wolf fur.

Around her shoulders, a cloak of crimson sits. The collar is thick and puffy, original wolf fur to keep the chill away from her and give the very wrong impression that she’s soft and cuddly. Many of the Arrancar might insist upon keeping up the white and black of their uniform, but Violetta is unlike any other Arrancar. She likes the red, it gives her some colour to break up the muted tones of her hair, skin, tattoos and of course, the white of her cloth. Her lady parts and spectacular arse are delicately covered by a pair of pants. Yes. You heard me. They have an overlay of longer material though, but don’t expect it to reach her knees. It merely adds some flow to the underwear. If it were up to Violetta, she would battle naked, finding that there’s nothing more ferocious than a naked combatant…and jiggling can cause some distraction for others. Unfortunately, she found it wasn’t exactly practical, so now she wears the bear minimum.

Her legs are long in length, starting somewhere high up in giddy stratospheres, and ending wherever it is she’s standing. The calves of which are snuggled in more of that warm wolf pelt she loves so much, at the very least, she wears the traditional black shoes of the Espada, though hers are less martial artsy and more kick your fucking teeth out in design. One hand is wrapped up in a scratch-yer-eyes-out gauntlet, complete with metal tearing claws and the other is simply bandaged up.

As for her tattoo, well, stand behind her and you’ll see it. Look down. Arse area. It’s on the right cheek, peeking out from beneath the border of her practical battle panties. It seemed to her to be the only real part of her that had yet to be tattooed, neither would it stick out like a sore thumb against the rest of her tribal tattoos, so it was of course, the best place for it. The hollow’s hole, supposed to represent whichever part of her is missing, is in that hand of hers that is covered by bandages. That doesn’t mean she has a poor handshake, but instead, that she lacks restraint. It proves to Violetta, and others, that she is a gluttonous fiend who simply thrives on chaos, jumping from one delectable massacre to the next, never knowing when enough is enough or when she’s had her share. And that’s what her specific hollows hole symbolises. Finally, her mask is somewhat hidden. It doesn’t sit on her face like some sort of badge, hindering her smirking and grinning or any other facial expression of badassery. Instead, it sits on top of her head, holding back her hair, a crown of jagged animal teeth and two large horns jutting out from within her Mohawk.

So that’s the make up of a sexual beast. They can’t achieve much though, by themselves, no, they need the charisma and wicked handlings of their owner, Violetta, to reach their full panty dropping potential. Violetta has never thought of herself as being particularly good looking, more like, earth shatteringly awe inspiring, but she works well with what she has. She’s got a good range of expressions and a look for every occasion. Of course, no one works a scowl or a ’fuck you,’ curl of the lip better than Violetta. It’ll have men reeling back and fighting back the urge to pop her with a right hook and ladies checking themselves and swooning. That goes without saying though.

Obviously.

“I’ll take my blame you take your shame.”

Violetta is, well, a mixed bag of tricks. She’s just as capable as anyone else when it comes to displaying emotions, but she’s not really the kind to get bent out of shape over things. Violetta lives on the borderline of not giving a shit about anything. If you were to strip back her personality, start from scratch, find the foundations, you’d see that she comes from the same stock as all the ‘quiet,’ ones out there. It’s where her beginnings, er, began, but Violetta has veered off into many different directions ever since. Quiet and shy are two very different things, she was never afraid of interacting with others, just hesitant in taking their bullshit. Though she’s not actively aware of it, Violetta is particularly good at reading people. She knows people, even without actually knowing someone, Violetta is able to read others and is specifically gifted when it comes to spotting bullshit or ‘fakers.’ Despite being able to pick a snake out of a bag of rats, Violetta merely chooses not to get dragged into it, which can account for her being that one sitting in the corner, keeping herself to herself. Not so much anti-social, as she is ill-equipped to tactfully handle cliques and people on wavelengths that are far removed from her own. Others, make changes to themselves for the benefit of others, Violetta isn’t willing to go to that much effort.

Upon first impressions, Violetta can come across as annoyingly laid-back to those around her. Her relaxed approach can grate on others quite easily, and even fool others into underestimating her. Some think that her flippancy is down to a very overpowering God Complex, but, while her arrogance does little to help the situation, this isn’t the case. No, Violetta has always been an ‘easy, breezy,’ sort of individual, she take things in her stride and practically saunters through life, only ever over exerting herself when she really has to. Sometimes her distinct indifference to a good and a bad situation can be quite alarming, though she will put on her business face when the time comes, she just takes a while to warm up. Being in a somewhat constant sedate mood has made Violetta quite lazy in most aspects of life, she likes to sleep in for as long as she can, until shaken awake. Or slapped. She drags her feet when she walks, she slouches, she’s the last one left at the table come dinner time, she nurses her sake and never slurps it. While excitable to a point, oftentimes she appears to be in a rather sedate state. Not so much stoic in her response to stimuli as she is relaxed towards changes in her environment or company. Violetta is the sort of woman to take things in her stride, she tries not to get overwhelmed and prefers to deal with things at her own pace and in her own manner.

Violetta is quite laid-back by nature, while she has always enjoyed a relaxed attitude, it has only become a whole lot worse under the influence of her partner in crime, Alejo. The two are as relaxed as one another, oftentimes practically leaning against one another when standing, if one stumbles so does the other. They are both lax in their approach to things, even disaster, Violetta remains calm under even the most crippling of pressure so long as Alejo is close by. Without him around, she can become a little more susceptible to panic and will do everything in her ability to prolong battles until he arrives, if even by running around under the pretences of ‘tiring,’ the enemy out. As far as she knows, he reacts almost exactly the same if caught short alone. Her life flew past her so fast that she has every intention of squeezing every last moment out of her after life. Being lazy doesn’t mean she has allowed herself to get soft over her many years, no, she has always put every effort into making sure such a thing never happened. Daily spars with Alejo keep her on her toes, and vice versa, it has also allowed the pair to get the complete drop on one another’s styles and movements. So much so that watching the pair fight in unison verges on beautiful. The relationship between Violetta and Alejo has been the envy of many others, the two simply exist on the same wave length, and with just a glance they can command a thousand things from one another. With a nudge, or an elbow to the side, they can form battle plans and with a nod, execute them. When they do engage one another in conversation, it’s quite abstract, seeming to be a continuation of a thought that they both shared at one point. Private jokes are in abundance and rarely divulged to others, being around them can be both a joy and a mindfuck. You’ll just have to see for yourself.

Violetta ticks all the right boxes when it comes to intimidating others. She’s got a certain look about her that says she will bite off your bits and your bobs and pickle them in a jar and send it to your mother. Well, she’s worked hard to nurture her particular look of badassery. It’s a mix between ‘don’t fuck with her,’ and ‘she’s pretty cool.’ Violetta is less like a time bomb and more like a dormant volcano, bubbling away beneath the surface. It just takes the right amount of button pushing to get her to react negatively. Mostly though, Violetta is quite relaxed towards most things. The kind to just go with the flow rather than chance upsetting the equilibrium of things by suggesting something different. She makes a good wingman, in this way. Should their be the right connection, Violetta is unlikely to try and derail your plans for world domination or whatever it is you have planned out. If she thinks that the ride will be a good one, Violetta will just go along with it. A shameless lackey, but by choice. Violetta loves doing the dirty work. A bull dog according to both her enemies and allies. You might think pointing that out would insult her, but Violetta has a unique ability with taking whatever you can throw at her as if it were but water off a ducks back. She doesn’t care what you think, or what you have to say. If you want to call her names, go for it, she’ll enjoy it. If you want to accuse her of doing something questionable, she’ll agree with you and play on it. Describing every tiny, lurid detail until you wish you hadn’t said anything in the first place. Nothing can really insult her, not if it’s coming from someone she doesn’t give a shit about. She might feel slightly insulted if it’s coming from someone she respects, but the chances are pretty slim, even then.

She is ruled by her instincts, she will always seek out the best thing for her at any given time without even thinking twice about it. Violetta is quite a simple creature in the sense that she lives by merely reacting to certain stimuli at any given time, for example, if she is tired she will set aside her plans and seek out a place to rest. If she is hungry, she will eat, if she is angry, she will find a (not always) suitable output. Should she feel under threat, she will fight or flee. However, there is one emotion (or rather state of mind) that she works best under and that is, pleasure. Violetta can be likened to a dog (don’t call her that, or you’ll get one hell of a backlash) in the sense that she repeats behaviour that she gets positive attention from. She may even repeat behaviour she gets negative attention from, just for the sake of doing so. Violetta will attempt to do things that will give her happiness or ‘pleasure,’ and attempt to avoid any other means of action. This, isn’t always manageable, as one can imagine. Naturally, she isn’t as interested in the enjoyment of others as she is in her own enjoyment. Which can probably account for her being alone quite often, others would rather leave her alone completely than risk being dragged into one of her hedonistic quests.

While she doesn’t shy away from conflict, Violetta might even seek out an evasive avenue should she think that a direct assault will derail her plans to take it easy. Her background in hunting has given her a lot of practice with biding her time and waiting for opportune moments, on the other hand, she doesn’t like to be left waiting unnecessarily. Violetta is a fine tuned predator, she conducts herself in a certain manner of savage grace and is fully capable of stalking her prey, and even delights in the chase of it all. However, like any vicious creature, she can switch at any given moment and suddenly decide that you are wasting her time, in which case, you should just stand perfectly still. Never run. If you run, Violetta will take chase, flight is an action typically associated with a target, prey. Violetta catches prey, and she’ll catch you too.

Despite her apparent slack nature, Violetta is not what you would call a ‘push over.’ She has a very particular raw talent and a clear animal instinct that seems to be her greatest aid in combat situations. Don’t let her lazy ways fool you into underestimating her, it’ll be the last thing you do. While she doesn’t exactly enjoy dwelling on things, Violetta can and will hold a grudge until her dying breath should she feel strongly about it. If wronged, she can become a prime example of just why ‘hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.’ Thankfully, one must have extensive knowledge over which buttons to press in order to bring out her ugly side, otherwise, she is generally in good spirits. In contrast, she can seem to be quite malicious, depending on her company. Violetta can and probably will resort to bully tactics when she’s around someone she dislikes. Don’t worry, you’ll know if she doesn’t like you, she’s quite open when it comes to displaying her hatred for others. If you can, try not to make an enemy out of her. When it comes to dealing with her enemeis, Violetta is a mix between a man and a woman. Like a woman she’ll be sly and vicious and like a man, she’ll just outright pop you in the face with a right hook to settle the issue. It’s not a good combination to be on the receiving end, should you find yourself in such an unfortunate position, be prepared for a world of cruelty.

Beneath it all, beneath all the hilarity and the mockery, Violetta is a well oiled killing machine. Friends should forget everything they think they know about her when they see her in action, Violetta can flit between her human nature and her animal instinct at a moments notice. For people that know her, seeing her suddenly become the ruthless savage that she really is, can be quite alarming. Violetta isn’t ashamed of her animalistic hunger for destruction, nor is she ashamed of her monstrous ways, but her ugly side is only reserved for those who warrant such behaviour. Her reputation within her family is that of great infamy rather than fame, she was regarded as a dragon, a beast, an unstoppable force. She doesn’t have to worry about being questioned by her closest of peers, or even having them poke into her personal business, they know her better than others, for they were around when the monster was formed. Violetta kills logically and not with emotion, she seems to have very little difficulty with the guilt that comes from taking a life. Either she’s just good at displacing that guilt, or she really doesn’t care. She lets others think that she’s just bottling it up, but really, taking a life is like water off a ducks back for Violetta. People die all the time, she has very little issue with hurrying them along if her orders call for it. As a combatant, she can be quite frightening once she really gets started, and it may take her a while to get round to actually putting you out of your misery. Violetta has an awe-inspiring level of stamina and approaches battle with a particular set of goals. Ideally, she likes to wear the opponent down, failing that she aims to cripple them before killing them outright. I can’t stress enough how vicious she is, for Violetta there is no ‘playing fair.’ She only ever fights dirty, once she has the edge over you, she’ll abuse it until you’re in the ground.

Never really one to make friends easily, it makes sense that Violetta would treasure those few she has. She proves to have a deep rooted sense of loyalty. She looks upon her friends so dearly that Violetta will willingly put herself in danger and has ruffled some feathers in doing so. Such a fact might be contradictory to her sense of loyalty, but Violetta swears loyalty to an individual rather than an entire faction. As far as the politics go, she doesn’t give a shit. She’ll follow a friend into whatever hell they wander into, should they fall out of favour with the higher power, Violetta will stick by them. In short, should she value you enough, she will happily walk through hell for you, regardless of the problems it might cause for her. Once her mind is made up, Violetta can be impossible to deal with. She rarely ever doubts herself, and tries very hard not to succumb to the clever mind games of others, if she says she’s going to do something, she will do her utmost to uphold it. Promises are not things that she throws around willy-nilly, she is a woman of her word. The most important thing being that once she has made her bed, she makes no issues with lying in it. Yes, even if she is fully aware that her decision may not be the best one, she will stand by it and ride through the consequences. She is loyal to the core and unmoving in such a fact.

Being of the female variation does very little to hinder Violetta’s ability to get things done. She is not and never has been one to be easily lured in by the sweet nothings of her male compatriots or even those of her male enemies. Despite her lengthy service as an ass kicking machine, Violetta has never been known to actively partake in the flirtations of her peers. Yes, she may be a woman but you can be rest assured that she does not find you attractive. You can also set your watch by the look of displeasure and disbelief that crosses her face with each attempt at flattery you make towards her. Despite being easy on the eyes, she is far from what one would call a ‘sexual being.’ No, Violetta is too combat orientated that she scoffs in the face of any man that would dare to make a move on her. Being a woman in a very masculine world, she strives to eliminate any advantage they might have over her. Similarly, the way she carries herself with such confidence and innate independence makes it difficult for men (or anybody) to think of her as vulnerable. She doesn’t play on the whole ‘damsel in distress,’ thing and can become quite insulted if someone assumes she is less able because of her gender. Luckily, everything about her genetics seems to be geared towards eliminating such a mindset, Violetta may not be as tall as some of her male comrades, but she’s certainly on the same page when it comes to how their minds work, she doesn’t complain when she’s injured or expect to have someone come running if she screams. She is an independent creature and can do most things by herself. Violetta is reluctant to ever ask for help, but will accept it if it is subtly offered to her. To further erase the issue of gender, Violetta has been known to partake in exclusively male conversations with her ally, Alejo. It’s quite hilarious for others to listen in on. She has also been known to fling sexist comments at other women, and even some comments that can be deemed as sexual harassment. Just because she doesn’t like to have people make exceptions for her because of her sex doesn’t mean she do the same to others. Violetta can be quite rude, but it depends on how you look at it. Men get it as badly from her as women, especially effeminate males.

Her natural ability in being able to take whatever kinds of shit you have to throw at her make her a nightmare for those that contest against her. She gives as good as she gets, and sometimes, if she’s feeling energetic, she gives more than is necessary. More of a catalyst than she is a pacifist when it comes to conflict, as a senior Espada she really should try to nip violence in the bud should she see it’s ugly head begin to rear. But Violetta finds that a quick beating is the best way to dampen the enraged spirits of those who get a little ahead of themselves. Fighting fire with fire is never a good idea, but Violetta’s always burns brighter. So she dominates and swallows up whatever fight the other had left in them. It also doesn’t help that she rarely shies away from conflict. Sometimes, Violetta will even stoke the fire until you explode, just so she can have an excuse to knock out some of your teeth. She doesn’t shy away, but she’s not the kind of ass that just goes around starting fights. Violetta is an honest person, mostly, and is more than willing to put her hands up and say she started it, if she actually started it. Unlikely to throw the first punch, unless you’re asking for it, Violetta is more likely to wait for you to boil over. Why? Well, it’s not her fault if you started it. If you start it, she’s just defending herself and if you start it? It makes you the dick. Watch out for her attempts at fucking with your mind. Feeble minds are easiest to break, and Violetta is well versed in all aspects of combat, both physical and mental warfare are a cinch for this one.

In her interactions with others, Violetta takes a back seat. As previously mentioned, she’s more of a hang back kind of gal’. With others, she can either terrify or delight. It helps that her look is undeniably badass, but the added fact that Violetta is the one standing back and just grinning at you while shit hit’s the fan just takes her to new heights of scary. One can never be quite sure what it is she’s cooking up in her mind. Adept with keeping things to herself, Violetta will often only show her cards if she’s run out of every other option. Never one to be left speechless or idealess she’s always got some sort of trick up her sleeve to trump you with. Cool as ever, Violetta will only ever step in on conflicts if she thinks she has to. If you’re fight is with her, she’ll be quicker on the draw. Otherwise, she’ll hold back and see how things unfold. A simmering pot of mismatched chemicals, Violetta will always keep you guessing. She might not sound pissed off about what you just said to her, she might still be treating you like the sun shines out of your arse, but just wait, the change will occur soon and it will be fucking terrifying. You might think you know what she’s thinking, but trust me, you’ll never be able to get it right. Not even in situations that would put her into auto-pilot. Nothing is set in stone with Violetta, for bad cats, this makes her unpredictable, but for cool cats it does very little to hinder her reliability. Violetta will always deliver, you just can’t be sure how she’ll go about things. It’s all part of the fun, right?

If that’s too much to read, I’ll sum it up; a hard ass bitch.

Strengths:

Violetta puts emphasis on offence and overwhelming the opponent in terms of attack speed. While not the strongest by a long shot, she is hardly easy to budge, especially once she’s had a chance to dig her heels in. Violetta can go toe to toe with some of the most advanced in close combat, she considers herself as something of a specialist in the art and has been known to fight without the use of a blade. ,Violetta has some admirable dexterity, she has always been light on her feet, quick to act and react. While she may look vacant when sitting on her throne but when shit goes down, her brain kicks straight into gear the moment she’s on her feet and on the move. Her ability to think on her feet is quite admirable and suits her spontaneity perfectly, she doesn’t like to over think things and generally acts in an instinctual manner. She is fast, with an unpredictable sonido.

Her strength is in disassembling the enemy, she’s a relentless assault that cuts you down to size. Built to tip whatever balance you thought you had, she exists to destroy and it is in destroying bitches, that she excells. Worst yet, she doesn’t need a blade to do it. Like Alejo, she can cause just as much damage with her bare hands. Violetta does not put emphasis on the use of her blade, and neither does she shiver in fear whenever an opponent brandishes something larger than her own. It doesn’t change her initial plan, and that plan is to chew you out.

Weaknesses:

With her focus being on causing as much damage as quickly as she can, she is not so concerned about what kind of damage she herself might take. Hierro stands her in good stead, in most cases, and when she feels something might penetrate it, she switches to primal instincts and finesse to avoid getting hit. It’s a dangerous tactic with a variable success rate, but that’s why I said her defence is a weakness. Violetta welcomes any blade that can cut her, she dares you to try, if you manage to get her, it may spice things up. Perhaps fuel her desire to annihilate your further, but either way, her lack of defence has never truly bothered her.

Niether does she enjoy magic shit, as she calls it. The Kidou of the Shinigami pack a punch and strike Violetta as a cheap trick, she will target you if it’s your favourite thing ever, if not just to beat the magical talent out of you.

Abilities:

She has the full set of standard Arrancar techs, as well as a nice little addition of her own creation.

Technique Name: Bombardeada (Blitzed)
Technique Category: Offensive
Technique Range: Close Range
Technique Description:

The most striking image of Kali which has stuck throughout the years is the blood drunk victor dancing upon the corpses of the slain. Having whipped her enemies mercilessly and whipped herself into a frenzy, the Goddess was said to lose herself in the essence of her foes, literally drawing her delirium inducing liquor from their veins. In a fight Violetta seems to sway and shift, an impossible figure to get a hold of on the battlefield. Her movement is neither a dance, nor is it a drunken straggle, it transcends both things which might come close to describing her, instead it is an unpredictable, patternless fighting style that she has perfected over many long years. “Boneless” is an adjective victims are fond of spewing in disbelief, unsure of just how they had been bested as only glimmers managed to be recorded in their memory.

So she jumps hither and thither like some ballerina who has picked up a sword and decided to try some new intricate battle dance? Her movements may be beautiful, impossible to read, and lethal as all hell, but so what? We all have our different fighting styles, and there seems to be nothing truly special about this one beyond the complexity of it all. If you're using the entirety of your comprehension just to keep pace with the Segunda up to this point, then the moment she gets serious will be probably be the very same moment her blade ends it all. The thing which hastens that blow is a sonido, or a series of sonido which vary wildly from the typical movements of her colleagues. Violetta is capable of contsructing complicated paths of energy with which to slide along, her control differing from the straight ahead styling of others. The ability to alter course mid-sonido adds an extra layer of unpredictability to her movements, however it is not the only surprise her Bombardeada has to offer. Her mastery of the sonido allows her to slow down her high speed movement or speed it up (only if it has first been slowed down, she can get no faster). Why would she ever need to slow a sonido down? In order to react to a new development from her enemy of course! Just one more your friendly Segunda goes out of her way to inconvenience those who test her.

Zanpakuto Name: Antania (enemy of mankind)
Sealed Zanpakuto: Completely unremarkable in design, a simple black bladed trench knife that fits perfectly in her hand. The sharply studded handle wraps around her knuckles like a glove and gives it a bit of a bite. The edge is sharp and not to be underestimated.

Incantation to Release: Beber hasta, Antania! (Drink up, Antania!)
Resurrección: (Describe the appearance of your released form here, two paragraphs minimum)

Technique Name: Apparitions
Technique Category: (How abilities work!)
Technique Range: (How abilities work!)
Technique Description: (Describe the abilities granted by your Resurrección, no more than two. Repeat these four sections as needed. Minimum of one paragraph per ability. Please understand! If you have one extremely powerful ability, we cannot then give you more. If you have multiple that add up to covering all areas of expertise, we can't give you more! If you start with a single ability, then your first objective can be to gain a new technique!)

Technique Name: (Simply the name of your ability. Please provide spanish as well as english. If you need help contact one of the staff for assistance with a translation.)
Technique Category: (How abilities work!)
Technique Range: (How abilities work!)
Technique Description: (Describe the abilities granted by your Resurrección, no more than two. Repeat these four sections as needed. Minimum of one paragraph per ability. Please understand! If you have one extremely powerful ability, we cannot then give you more. If you have multiple that add up to covering all areas of expertise, we can't give you more! If you start with a single ability, then your first objective can be to gain a new technique!)

Technique Name: (Simply the name of your ability. Please provide spanish as well as english. If you need help contact one of the staff for assistance with a translation.)
Technique Category: (How abilities work!)
Technique Range: (How abilities work!)
Technique Description: (Describe the abilities granted by your Resurrección, no more than two. Repeat these four sections as needed. Minimum of one paragraph per ability. Please understand! If you have one extremely powerful ability, we cannot then give you more. If you have multiple that add up to covering all areas of expertise, we can't give you more! If you start with a single ability, then your first objective can be to gain a new technique!)

[Violetta Vega Vicente]

Huntress, She-wolf, Pimp, Champion, Vagrant, Bandit, Hun, General, Prisoner, Example, Pariah, Destroyer, in that order.

First and foremost, it should be known that Violetta has adopted many names throughout history, she has changed them to suit how she herself and her environment have changed. First, she was known as Sloane Shanach B’ar Venicones, Sloane meaning warrior, Shanach fox for her cunning nature, B’ar simply of the and Venicones, literally translated as hunting hounds. This name of hers, the one she was gifted at birth, is undeniably Celtic in origin. She herself is a mix of Bulgarian Celt and Hungarian descent. There is ambiguity over where exactly she was born as her tribe, The Venicones were nomadic in culture, which is why her father Vachir (a Hun) and her mother Hilde (a Celt) managed to procreate in the first place. In terms of tribal standards, she was born from particularly good stock. Vachir was an established warrior within the clan and Hilde one of the most prominent of huntresses, her talent perhaps outweighing that of Sloane’s father as the art of hunting was incredibly important to the hunting hounds.

As a clan, they answered only to themselves, their elders made their laws and the rest stuck by whatever traditions were dictated to them. Men were born to be warriors, trained in the art of swordplay and combat so that they could offer their people some form of protection against outsiders that might try and destroy them, they were guardians of their peoples. Women were born to be hunters, providers for their clan, they were trained in the use of archery (most common) and learned in the ways of the wolf so that they could condition themselves well enough to follow the mere scent of their prey. Both were taught how to kill, but in different aspects.

They were a small clan, the Venicones, they depended on one another for their continued survival and they bred from only the strongest of men and women in a form of natural selection. Within their society, companions were made for life. A man could lay claim to a woman (of his choosing), but a woman could not claim a man. Children were essential to ensuring further generations of Venicones which is why most (if not all) women of age were married off as soon as possible. A woman could reject a man but only if she was prepared to fight him for her solitude in a place called The Pit. It was a sacred place to their peoples, known to all but the most naïve of pups (children) and feared by many. The Pit was a place of glory and death, a place were transgressions were settled and lives were lost. It was prominent in their beginnings, when they were almost more beast than human. In Sloane’s time, it was used mostly when two men sought the same woman, and on the rare occasion, when a woman opted for solitude. In such situations, the combatants would fight until one or the other was killed, or one submitted to the greater strength of the other. In times of submission, both parties would be allowed to return to the clan, in times of death, the losing parties body would often be left to rot in The Pit as a final insult.

As women were rarely conditioned as warriors, or taught in the defensive and offensive ways of swordplay (or similar weaponry), they had suffered historically within The Pit and because of that, few rejected the men to betroth them. They were also a superstitious and spiritual peoples, their beliefs strongly affected by their dependency on the land and the beasts that roamed it. To other cultures, they appeared uncivilised (as many tribes did) and were often regarded as savages, they had their own language and were quite illiterate. Within the clan, there would often be a Volur, a woman (commonly) with the apparent ability of foresight who often told prophecies, attended funerals and births and was called upon in times of difficulty and confusion. The Volur made use of herbs and flowers from the land, oftentimes their favourite being Henbane, a particularly toxic plant, the smoke of which caused sensations of flight, ecstasy and hallucinations. It was the same plant the Greeks had their Oracle’s use to communicate with the Gods.

Their hierarchy was like that of a pack of wolves, they operated under an Alpha male and female and beneath that, they answered to a Beta and so on and so forth. Elders were positions of power for the veteran warriors and hunters whose main duty was to offer council to the Alpha and leaders of the tribe.

Sloane, as a Venicones, has her name written into the abstract annals of tribal history. A likely place to start would be the beginning, but we already covered her lineage, but let’s elaborate. Vachir, her father was present only through the memories of others throughout Sloane’s life, he left the clan shortly after she was born, though his exact reasons for doing so were known only to her mother, Hilde. Naturally, Hilde became hardened by this abandonment and lacked a mothering disposition throughout Sloane’s early years. As the girl grew older, Hilde was noticeably cold towards her. Hilde actively distanced herself from her daughter, so she could not be accused of favouring her in any situation (Hilde graduated to an Elder position in the clan with age). More than that, Sloane showed to have much of her fathers nature about her, she was brash and arrogant, fickle and Hilde had always thought the girl would follow in the mans footsteps and leave.

At a young age Sloane was promised to the Venicones Beta’s son, Connal, whom was a little older than her and quite the one to throw his weight around. Even as a young boy, Connal was quite the bossy sort up until he grew beyond bossy and became an all out bully with his peers and juniors. As he got older he became more aware of his position in the clan as Beta’s son, warrior in training, and most interestingly, betrothed of Sloane. This sudden awareness of self importance lead Connal to hone in on taking all the joy out of Sloane’s day to day life. He would strike her if she spoke out of place (in his eyes) and often take the best of her kills for his own. Amidst the Venicones, women focused on being hunters and gatherers while men focused on being warriors and guardians as such, only men were taught swordplay. The clear gender divide within the clan only served to make Connal’s head even bigger than it was, and as Sloane was still young, she was more obedient when it came to conforming to the way of things, developing a rivalry with the boy more than truly despising him.

Her best friend throughout her entire time within the Venicones clan was a fellow huntress named Fallon. As they grew up together, they hunted together and learned to become an efficient killing machine, Fallon was a skilled archer while Sloane was a better tracker and more fond of a spear. Their individual talents balanced the faults of the other and as children, they easily bonded on hunts. They did as children often do and became attached at the hip, where one was the other was never far behind, where mischief had been made if you caught one you inevitably caught the other just as red handed. Connal would muscle his way in every now and then to take the fattest of captured rabbits, but as children things were much simpler for them all.

With age, relationships change and as Hilde had warned her, one uncharacteristic mother-to-daughter day, attraction was dangerous to their kind (the reason brothers tear each other apart) and while it ‘may pass in brief encounters, it can grow to overwhelm when left to linger between companions.’ At the time, Sloane hadn’t known exactly what her mother was getting at, or what she was warning her about but as she stumbled through her teenage years she came to notice things more than she had before. When one of those things happened to be Fallon, Sloane filled in the blanks rather easily. It was not just Sloane. Connal noticed too, and Sweeney and Nielson and any number of the dogs (men) within the clan. Fallon was the exception to many of the characteristics of the Venicones, where Sloane and most others had dark hair and eyes, Fallon was the opposite, she had blonde hair and bright blue eyes. If that wasn’t enough to make others take a second glance at her, she also had a certain ethereal beauty to her.

Sloane couldn’t tell whether Fallon had always looked as so or not, but realising said attraction just kind of snuck up on her out of nowhere. It wasn’t difficult to understand, but it was somewhat taboo considering Sloane was already promised off to Connal and had been for most of her life. Despite this, and since Sloane was young and brash, she did very little to try and distance herself from Fallon. Instead, she welcomed any new development between them and openly so, giving the gossips of the clan plenty to spin a tale with. When such rumours reached Connal, he simply laughed them off as madness. Thinking of himself to be the most perfect of specimens to walk the earth yet, as he did, it didn’t make sense that Sloane would jeopardize their betrothal by involving herself with Fallon. A front is exactly that, and while he didn’t appear to care about the chatter of his peers, he continued to listen on. Each new snippet of idle chit chat regarding the finer details of Sloane and Fallon’s relationship built upon the last.

When a warrior by the name of Donovan used Sloane’s preference for Fallon to humiliate Connal in front of his peers, he finally could take no more. According to Venicones law, she was his to discipline as he saw fit. With that in mind, and madness in his eyes, Connal decided to leave his mark on her by giving her thirteen lashes from a leather whip. Sloane did not need tying to a post, the threat of him doing the same to Fallon was enough to keep her rooted to the spot and endure his wrath. Afterwards, as if to kick dirt in her face even more so, Connal spurned his betrothal to Sloane on the grounds that she was now tainted. His mark, the thirteen scars that lay criss-crossed on her back ensured no other man would consider her again, but this humiliation was not something that bothered her. Connal’s next move, however, can be said to be the making of her next identity; Burilgi (Destoryer).

She did not care about the pain, or the humiliation, but Sloane did not like others trying to take what she deemed as belonging to her. Connal laid claim to Fallon as his mate, by this time she was fifteen and had remained untouched due only to the wicked looks Sloane dished out to any admirers and her almost constant presence around her.

Fallon was an established huntress and her use of a bow and arrow an art in itself, but she was not a strong physical presence. Average in height and build, she was far from domineering. As nature dictated, she was lithe and limber thanks to her years of archery and athleticism, but she had never held the weight of a blade in her hand or raised one to defend herself. That said, she was helpless against Connal’s claims to her flesh. As women are huntresses within the clan, they are usually skilled with bows and bows alone. This gave them a clear disadvantage in a close combat situation such as The Pit. Fallon knew that as vividly as she knew resistance was futile.

Sloane was a different matter entirely. Her fathers nature shone through, and Sloane challenged Connal to the Pit. Thinking he was being clever, Connal agreed. Unfortunately for him, she was not as delicate or dainty as Fallon. The spear she had lugged around through most of her years was comparable in weight and length to the great sword of any warrior, helping her grow muscles she had never known she was growing. In the Pit, arrogance guided Connals blades (a couple of thick and heavy machete’s for short range and a long sword) while desperation for survival guided Sloane and her spear. He was larger, weightier and stronger and he always would be, but at the very least, Sloane had speed and a greater reach. Against all odds, and to the surprise of just about everyone in the clan, she defeated him fairly. Connal would not submit however, and so, he found his demise at the end of Sloane’s spear. She took his machete’s as a trophy, and whilst she emerged victorious from that first taste of combat, she was no use to anyone for several weeks afterwards.

----------------------------INTERMISSION------------------------------
If I stumble, they’re gonna eat me alive

Earlier, around the fire, she had spoken with such confidence. Declared to all that she would drag his sorry ass to the Pit and beat the arrogance out of him, he hadn’t cared, he hadn’t flinched, he’d just laughed. They all had, they’d looked her up and down, scrutinised the soft musculature, the lack of bulk to her arms and legs, the suggestion of tone that could only be seen in certain lighting. She was an animal, just as they were, but she pushed beyond her station. Fallon had given her that look of hers, the one that urged her to back off, to pull herself together before she got herself torn apart. As with all those other times, Sloane had ignored it and she’d tilted her head upwards, chin jutting out as she squared up to Connal. She had asked him if she’d stuttered, and his face had gone red with anger.

Now, she was standing across from him after getting exactly what she had thought she’d wanted. Only when she stood poised to either fall at his feet or tower above him did she truly admit to herself that he was probably better than her. Larger, without a doubt, both up the way and out the way and the difference had never been so apparent than it was then. When had he developed those muscles? Sloane had lived by him for her entire life and she had never seen him lift a finger or break out in a sweat over menial laborious tasks. Others had said he was a warrior, he had a sword strapped to his back like some kind of badge, but he’d never returned to the encampment battered and bruised. No scar had ever marred his flesh, and Sloane had simply assumed he’d never crossed blades with another. She had never been entirely sure as to what the warriors of the clan did, but according to the Elders, the Venicones were dogged by a rival tribe almost all the time. The Taexali, as they were called, had become something of a shadow to the clan, yet Sloane had never encountered one and whenever she had made that point, she was answered with it being proof of the warriors efficiency.

“I’ll let you live, if you submit.”

Sloane glowered at him, his voice grating on her last nerve. After prolonged moments of basking in the vocal veneration of their heady audience, he finally turned to look her way, cracked lips parting to bare crooked and sharpened teeth. The Pit was exactly that, a hole bore in the earth, twelve feet deep and crudely carved into the shape of a circle. Above, the audience glared down, lining the edges of the arena like a halo, eyes waiting to feast upon whatever monstrosities the battling pair would offer them.

“That’s generally how it goes, Connal.” Beyond him, she looked up to faces of disgust, her name nowhere to be heard beneath the thundering calls of Connal but after a moment, she managed to spot her one sponsor. Fallon was distant, wedged awkwardly between two larger Venicones, her mouth unmoving in her support of Sloane. She did not support this, she had never wanted this, but Sloane was incorrigible and when others said she couldn’t do something, she only asked ‘why not?’ whilst doing exactly that. It was why no one had tried to stop her, no one had tried to talk any sense into her, because Sloane was not a sensible person. She was brash, more hound than the rest of the hounds, far more attuned to her animal instincts than her humanity, and for that reason, she would play with her own mortality. The animal in her was territorial, in terms of human characteristics, others might say possessive and the animal in her had decided Fallon was hers and for that reason, Connal had to be eliminated.

Perhaps it would give her the edge over him in this particular battle. If not, she was really clutching at straws.

Someone shouted something, and Connal adopted a defensive stance, one arm stretching up to pull his sword from its sheath on his back. Standing side on, Sloane gripped her spear deftly as she fixed him in her sights. She watched him watching her, unsure of what she should do next. Sloane had felled beasts with her spear, but they didn’t fight as a human might and one strike was often all it took. Connal was different, and impatient. He lunged towards her, sword swinging out in an arc that would have taken off her head had she not thrust her spear up to intercept it. The action had surprised him almost as much as it had surprised her, but he didn’t give her time enough to comprehend it or how it had come about in the first place. He relented for a moment, only long enough to pull the blade back and swipe it forward again, towards her unguarded legs. His father had told him to finish her quickly, and he seemed intent to deliver.

She parried quickly, the butt of her spear keeping the edge of his sword from catching her skin as she stumbled back towards the muddied wall of The Pit.

In a moment of absolute clarity, she seemed to notice he had overreached himself in striking for her legs, and Sloane lurched forwards, swinging her spear downwards across his chest, carving a thin line down the length of it until he swatted it away with the back of his sword, his knee rising to slam into her exposed side. The force knocked her off balance and Connal took the brief moment to slash at her with one of the short ranged machete’s attached to his hip, with his other hand. A dirty move, but she had expected nothing less from him. She caught herself in the aftermath, her spear helping to return her to her axis but not fast enough. Already, Connal had pushed forwards with an outward slash of that same machete, as if to cross the bloodied line he’d already made.

Her hunting methods took over, and she flowed beneath his outstretched arm, locking it with her own at the elbow and proceeding to sever his upper arm tendon with a short hunting blade taken from her boot. It was serrated, rough and jagged, meant for skinning but as he reeled back in pain, arm falling limp by his side, she realised tendons were flimsy things all the same. Man or beast. It seemed to enrage him further, and give him some sudden burst of strength. He charged her into the wall, jagged teeth snatching up what sparse skin there was on the nape of her neck and staying fixed, even as she kicked him back and away. When he went, he took that skin with him and it was her turn to scream out. Her free hand went to her neck, covering the wound in an attempt to ease the bleeding but as the wet warmth spread out across her palm, and down the length of her arm, she realised it was to no avail.

Their wounds multiplied as the fight went on, Connal was still more than a match with but one fully functional arm. At some point, Sloane had hit him so hard that her spear snapped in two, yet he stood straight back up and smacked her in the face with the butt of his hilt. Thankfully, she had gone flying and the momentum of that flight had kept her from being impaled by the jabbing thrust that followed. He had not laid down his sword to offer some form of parity, instead, he had struck out relentlessly, deciding that the end of this fight was near. She’d stumbled and tumbled and rolled out of the way several times until she managed to position herself beneath the arc of his strike, from which she had risen up, fist pumping up and into his jaw in a wicked uppercut.

He’d fallen then, like a tree and onto his back. Sloane had wrestled the sword from him in his moments of confusion and she’d positioned herself on top of him, sword poised above her head, eager to strike down. The pause she offered was to give him a chance to submit, but he had bolstered himself up onto his elbows instead, and spat in her face. At times, she thinks he hadn’t expected her to have the guts, the shocked glimmer to his eyes and the way his face twisted into puzzlement when she simply dropped the sword into his chest, told her so. She’d remained seat, upon his chest, while the life left in him ebbed away and into the mud beneath him. Colouring it a reddish brown.

Then she had taken two things from him. His head, and his machete’s. His head, she had held up to the baying crowd, screaming as she did so, and his machete’s she had strapped to her side. They were hers now, and his head she carried with her as she climbed out of The Pit. His body remained, doomed to rot in the spot it had fallen and his head would spend the rest of its time in a chest and she would whip it out every now and then to boast about how she took him down and how she had taken his strength the same moment she had chopped it from his shoulders. First though, she allowed Fallon to lead her back to her tent, where she finally allowed herself to crumble.

Sloane had defeated Connal, that was true, that fact could not be ignored, but she had almost died doing so. Few would know such a fact, no one other than Sloane or Fallon would ever know how much it had taken out of her, because she had managed to hold herself together long enough to clear The Pit and the hounds. In the shadow of her tent, she collapsed and fell into the void of sleep, a slumber forced upon her by her weakened body. A wounded hound was as good as a dead one, but no one bothered her, no one crept beneath the hem of the tent to slit her throat.

It seemed the head on the pike outside gave them pause for thought.

----------------------------END OF INTERMISSION------------------------------
Hard to be soft, tough to be tender.

Her victory and the reasons behind her dance with death were indeed perfect ingredients for a tale of romance and honour, but what Sloane had done only opened a box of trouble she would never be able to close again despite her best efforts. Her dominance over Connal would likely be written into the annals of Venicones history, but while it had declared her a lone wolf, it had not declared Fallon the same. A woman’s solitude (unclaimed) cannot be won on another’s behalf, so unless Fallon took her next suitor into combat, she would face a lifetime of child bearing with the next man to step in line. Luckily, Sloane’s presence and victory proved to be enough when it came to keeping the wolves from Fallon’s door, at first. With time though, many of the dogs (men) became curious about whether or not Sloane’s victory over Connal was just a fluke.

Sloane entered the Pit on three more separate occasions, each time fighting men that sought to lay claim to Fallon. She fought an older man named Barram first, his first mate had been killed some years before. When she became victorious again, his age was brought up to explain it. After Barram, she fought Conn. He was neither large nor small, a little older than she was but not so old that it could be used as an excuse. Conn was more of a Rogue than a Warrior, and on the outside of things, he appeared to be well matched to Sloane. He was fast and cunning like her, but when the cards were played, they fought hand to hand and his skull was crushed beneath her foot.

On the third occasion, she fought three brothers; Pherick, Killian and Doherty. They had all challenged one another to the Pit to fight for entitlement to Fallon. This they did knowing that Sloane would stand in their way. They planned to work together to overwhelm and kill her, death in the Pit was the only way a Venicones could kill another legitimately, without consequence. They were each warriors, but by this time, Sloane had accepted her lot in life and knew she would be no stranger to the Pit if she kept assigning herself Fallon’s very own champion. Acceptance for this dangerous pastime had lead Sloane to further perfect her abilities with a spear until her traditional spear was replaced with a Warriors double ended sword spear variety. Furthermore, she practiced with the two short ranged machete’s taken from Connal for that worthy foe that managed to penetrate the area of effect around a single swipe of her spear.

Her preparations served her well in the confrontation but nowhere near as well as her hunting skills which inevitably became irreplaceable in the battle royal that followed. Pherick, she classed as a rabbit lithe and fast, Killian a boar powerful and dangerous unless herded and flanked carefully and Doherty was like Connal, a bear. He would always be larger and stronger, but Sloane would always be faster. She may have had Fallon’s favour, but everyone else had bets on the brothers. Considering Sloane is still here today, her victory is unquestionable. Still, it wasn’t easy and neither was it handed to her on a plate. The contest went on into the early hours of the morning and culminated in exactly what Sloane had been avoiding, open combat. Somehow, she managed to get through it, though there was a close call with Killian who almost put a blade straight through her chest. Fortunately, he only broke the surface before her primal instincts took over and moved her out of harms way.

Her numerous victories did not go unnoticed and neither did the growing number of casualties to Fallon’s vanity. Ita and the other Elders, although Ita was the driving force behind the order, decided that they had to put an end to it. To do that, they knew they had to eliminate Sloane as a factor, she could not be reasoned with and with Sloane as a protective constant, neither could Fallon. So, Sloane was to be exiled from the clan, if she would not go willingly, she would be chased from the Venicones territory and forced across the border into whatever clan lay at the other side.

Despite every valiant attempt at resisting, Sloane was eventually chased from her homeland and forced into exile by her own mother. Nielson was her final casualty and the last Venicones (other than Fallon) to see her. Fallon had followed her and was intercepted by Nielson, he had been moments away from doing something neither Fallon nor Sloane would appreciate when Sloane stuck a blade through his chest. Before departing, Sloane gave Fallon one of her machete’s and told her how to kill rabbits, boar and bears successfully, then she left. She had tried to return a week or so later, whilst wandering the border of her clans territory, but Sloane had almost been killed in doing so.

----------------------------INTERMISSION------------------------------
We will never walk together

She stopped dead in her tracks, something was not right. A sense of unease rattled through her bones and Fallon retraced her steps unconsciously until her back was pressed against a strong oak. The noises she had been following had all but disappeared, in mere moments too. They had not dulled nor faded, they had just ceased to exist altogether. Silence had always been a harbinger of something foreboding in her experience, it was only ever welcomed in times of rest and when it was her own doing, such as on a hunt. This silence, it had been thrust upon her and she did not like it.

Sunlight, faded and weak, seeped through the canopy of trees. The hounds had been running wild throughout the forest nearly all night, chasing the same prize; Sloane. Fallon felt dread grip at her chest, her mind trying to make sense of things, trying to accept things. Had silence reigned because Sloane now lay dead? No. It couldn’t be. Whether she was dead or alive still had no real impact on Fallon’s own assured demise. Without her, things would become unbearably difficult within camp for Fallon. They had been difficult before of course, but Sloane just being there had made everything easier to handle. Without her, Fallon feared she would not cope. She would fight tradition as long as Hilde allowed it, but she knew the woman’s fickle nature. If exile was how she treated her own flesh and blood, what on earth would await Fallon?

“What are you doing out here, flower?” He stood tall, like most hounds. Nielson approached from the trees, each step full of purpose and foreboding and as he neared her his bulk devoured the light and Fallon was left to fester in his shadow. “Should you not be at the camp? Preparing for the onslaught to come?” A grin etched itself across his features and he edged closer still, until a mere slither of light separated their bodies, his a dominating force pinning Fallon between himself, a mountain of muscle and strength, and the tree she had pressed herself against. “I had always thought it was unfair. For the most beautiful of hounds to be tied to someone so undeserving.” His eyes belied any supposed gentle intention, they were wild with lust and animal hunger. Hunger perhaps, for what he thought he was owed.

Fallon swallowed, her voice abandoning her just as Sloane had. Her neck began to ache, as craned as it was looking up into Nielson’s wild visage. He was dirty from the hunt, sweat matted his dark hair and glistened on his brow, yet he was smiling. In his hand, that hand that was the size and breadth of Fallon’s entire torso, he held a bloodied hatchet. Similarly, blood had splattered across his chest, staining his dark flesh and crisping around the mess of hairs there. He was a man, a hound so deserving of the fear he stirred in others. A fear he stirred in Fallon too.

Noticing the way Fallon stared bleary eyed at his bloody hatchet, Nielson lifted it slightly so she could inspect it further. “Yes. It is her blood.” He saw a change in her expression, her eyelids fluttering rapidly for a moment as she tried to pretend it didn’t bother her. With a satisfied snort, Nielson pushed the hatchet towards her, so that the blood stained her as it did him. “Can’t you tell? Can’t you smell her?” The latter he queried with a sneer, his upper body lurching towards her so that he fully encompassed her form from head to toe. Always had he been disgusted by Sloane’s keen senses, her ability to track a person’s scent riled him to the core, though it was more the way in which she gathered their scent that got to him most. With Maeve, she had driven the girl into a state of terror and panic and arousal and then the scent was archived in whatever deprived part of her mind she kept such knowledge. With Fallon, he could only imagine Sloane had been more direct.

Fallon shook her head, blinking away the despair she felt rise in her chest. He could not have killed Sloane, she couldn’t believe it. More so, Fallon refused to believe it. “She is not dead.” As she said it, she felt her strength return to her, felt her resolve bubble up in her veins. And as she spoke, there was a power in her voice. Sloane remained still, within her, and that alone would give her strength. “You could never have killed her.”

“Fool!” Nielson howled, the hatchet finding a new home in the bark by her skull, an inch or so to the right and he would have taken off her ear. “She is dead either way! Dead to the hounds and dead to you! No longer will she be able to hide you away or protect you! No longer will I, nor Sweeney, nor Killian nor any of us dogs be kept at bay by her stare or sneer.” With his hand freed from the hatchet, it found new purchase around the blondes delicate throat. Beneath his palm, he could feel her pulse and her trembles. It was delectable. “One of us, shall have you. Each will fight for you, and many will fall. You can’t refuse us forever. When Hilde sees how many she will lose to your beauty, she will command you to take a mate.” Rather than hunch down to her height, he lifted Fallon to his, by her throat. “Or die in the pit.”

His grip coiled around her throat, choking the air out of her lungs quicker than Fallon had expected and despite herself, her legs had begun to kick out involuntarily as they were denied both oxygen and earth beneath them. She was so starved of oxygen that she didn’t even twitch as his mouth found her own, or even when she felt him tear at her lips with his teeth.

Suddenly, normalcy returned to her. Nielson dropped her and Fallon gasped for air, sliding down to her knees in exasperation. Her senses were slow to return to her, so much so that she missed the grunt that broke out of Nielson’s clamped jaw. A wet warmth hit her face and before she could look up to see whether it was rain or something else, Nielson kneeled before her his back curved and slumped so that he was on her eye level. There was a hand around his own throat, and the end of a blade poking up through his chest, looking to have been driven through with strength enough to force its way through his sternum. “What-trick,” his eyes rounded on Fallon, confused and bewildered yet still angry, “-is this?!” The blade twisted in his chest and was yanked back, unplugging the gaping wound and showering Fallon in gore.

He fought to stay on his knees, glaring at Fallon, but the hand around his neck pushed him to his back and he looked up with deranged eyes as Sloane stood above him, “No trick.” She leaned down, grabbing his chin in her hand and drawing his gaze to her own. “Just skill.” Had mortality allowed it, Nielson would have strangled her there and then, but strong as he was, he could not hold onto his life as it slipped through his fingers, ebbing away on the same crimson tide as his blood.

“Boar blood.” Sloane remarked as she hauled the hatchet from the tree bark, Fallon stayed where she was, staggered by what had just happened and her scattered nerves. She was aware of Sloane standing in front of her, as close as Nielson had been moments ago. Moments ago when he had still been alive. “Few would know the difference by sight.” When Fallon still did not move, nor mutter, Sloane gave a sigh and lowered herself to crouch before her. “Nielson was always a showman, his fault was thinking we could all be fooled.” Most could be, blood was red no matter the source, and he was prominent a figure enough to have most people take his word on it. Most others would be thankful enough to just swallow the lie while forgiving the fact that there was no body of hers to be found. Despicable. “Fallon.” She did not care about the tales that would be told of her death, she didn’t care about those that would tell or believe them, but she couldn’t live with Fallon thinking she had left her to suffer alone in her mortal coil.

Finally, the blonde found her focus again and looked into Sloane’s eyes in answer. Death never seemed to affect Sloane as deeply as it did Fallon, or perhaps, everyone else. Nielson had been no friend of hers, yet she could not look on his passing as if it were a mere after thought. Nor could she relish in the contact as Sloane wiped a thumb across her cheek. Apparently, tears had begun to creep down her face. Fallon jerked away from the touch and found she could not look at Sloane for the moment. Though she did not see, Sloane frowned and apology glittered in her eyes. “I thought you needed help-” quickly, she tried to find words that might explain herself, though she could not rightly understand Fallon’s reaction.

The blonde shook her head softly, shaking the tears from her face and eyes before new ones could replace them. “I knew he had not killed you.” Fallon looked up again, fixing Sloane in her sights and finding beauty emanating from her, even beneath the blood and dirt that marred her features. “You still haven’t crossed the border?”

Sloane smiled somehow playing ignorant to the corpse that lay behind her, “No. I reached it, then I doubled back.” As Fallon began to shake her head again, in query this time, Sloane placed a steady hand on her shoulder. “For you.” Beneath her palm, she felt Fallon relax as she found comfort in the touch, her trembles dissipating.

Without words, Fallon covered Sloane’s hand with her own and held it steady. Nielson was but one of her problems, and Sloane could not flit between the border and Fallon whenever another reared its ugly head. It was not feasible. In some ways, she had wished that Nielson had killed her. It would spare her from the torments that were sure to follow.

“Fallon.” Sensing the girls fall into misery, Sloane gave her shoulder a light squeeze before easing her hand away as her fingers went to the spear that lay discarded by her feet. “I can’t protect you anymore, I know that,-” as she spoke, her fingers worked at unravelling the red cloth that was tied around the shaft of the spear. “Maybe my ghost can.” Sloane had left a scar on the Venicones, as a hound she had been one of a kind and her reputation would live on though her presence might not. “Maybe that will be enough.” She had begun to wrap the cloth around Fallon’s upper left bicep. “Even dogs know which tails not to chase.”

Fallon laughed then, her heart swelling from the sentiment. Sloane was nearly as fickle as her mother, a hard woman with an uncaring air about her. Compassion was to Sloane as silence was to Fallon, only allowed to linger in times of rest or when it was of her own volition, such as when she ducked into Fallon’s tent at nights and flopped down beside her, allowing an arm to snake around her waist and pull her close. Keep her close and keep her safe and hers. “Your mother will not allow it for long.” Fallon watched as Sloane pretended not to hear her and cooperated as the girl placed a machete into her hand. One of the two Sloane had taken from Connal years ago.

“Men fall as beasts do. Some are like rabbits, easy to fell. Others can be like Nielson, boars that can be dangerous unless you herd them and flank them.” Sloane closed Fallons fingers around the hilt of the heavily used blade. “Some, bears such as Connal or Sweeney. In which case, you will always be lighter and weaker but faster too,” Fallon felt her heart break with every word Sloane uttered, her mind catching up with the details and connecting the dots. This was Sloane saying goodbye. “All will underestimate you, this you should expect.” She grabbed Fallon by the chin, the same way she had grabbed Nielson, though there was no force behind it. “You should never doubt yourself.” Her head rested against Fallon’s and her eyes bore into jade green orbs, imploring Fallon to listen. “You must always believe in yourself Fallon, when no one else will.” Sloane stepped back and away, stepping over Nielson and placing him as the first obstacle in Fallon’s path to her. “Strike to kill Fallon, every single one of them will extend you the same courtesy. I can promise you that.”

“Sloane,” Fallon could only look on as the brunette turned from her and disappeared off into the woods for the last time. When she was gone, Fallon gazed upon the machete in her hand and as she tried to stand she felt its weight drag her back down. Life was not hers to take, a large part of her knew that and that same part knew Sloane was just as aware of it.

----------------------------END OF INTERMISSION------------------------------
That place has gone right out of style

As she wandered, she came into contact with outsiders to the clan, people that looked different to her, acted differently and spoke an entirely different language. They were well armed people, riding horses. She followed them somewhat, acting as their shadow as she try to identify whether or not they were friends or foes. Eventually she was spotted and arrows were fired her way, rather than flee, Sloane, whom had taken her fathers name; Vachir, attacked. She managed to kill each of them and took their weapons and supplies for herself, she had not known they were Taexali, kinsmen of her rival clan. A warrant for her capture was put out and Vachir found herself killing at least once every damn day in the wasteland east of the Volga. Those hunting her came to realise that she was not one of them, and perhaps did not understand their ways. They stopped striking to kill and instead, tried to capture her.

By the time they put hands on her, she had managed to learn some of their language and demanded to be taken to their leader. As a woman she was quite striking, but any gentle thoughts about her were quickly destroyed the moment she opened her mouth, or picked up a weapon. Vachir, as she called herself, was a hard woman with a short temper. Despite her gender, she was inducted into the Taexali, who were one of the largest tribal clans around, with visions of absorbing lesser clans. They even placed into a position of power. Her Venicones origins explained why she was so learned in the ways of battle and any attempt at dissuading her from the path of destroyer were futile, which is why she was given a small legion of men to command. With these men, she blossomed.

Initially she served beneath a man named Breck, a renown Taexali general. He was perhaps seven years her senior, but he took an immediate shine to her, though one that was not driven by attraction. Instead, Breck saw a ferocity in her that he had seen nowhere else. He was the one to nurture it. When she was inducted into the Taexali, the lands were dominated by three clans, the Taexali, the Venicones and the Dreahanians. They were at each others throats constantly, though they all shared one belief, and that was in the predictions and so called foresight of the Volur. Naturally, controlling the Volur (seer’s) became an easy means of controlling the territories, so those individuals praised as such found themselves being pulled from clan to clan, used as bait and held for ransom.

----------------------------INTERMISSION------------------------------
I wanna build you up, brick by brick

Breck had followed the ruckus. Shouts and screams lead his way through the forest until they all but dulled into nothingness, a sign that there was a battle won and another lost. The silence forced him to quicken his pace, nothingness never did sit well with the Taexali, it was far too foreboding for his liking. Thankfully, neither his compatriots nor those whom they had been fleeing had been much for subtlety. Tracks were easily followed and Breck was far too experienced not to pick up on the brazen trail left for him. He followed it closely, long after those responsible for the fallout had disappeared. Branches lay broken, leaves scattered, footprints peppered the soft dirt and at one point, Breck caught the sight and scent of blood. It sat darkly on the trunk of a white oak tree, staining the bark with its darkening colour. Unperturbed, he had touched at the liquid feeling a warmth that was fading from it. Proceeding onwards, he found more of the elixir until, eventually, it lead him to its source.

“Vachir.”

There in a heap, lay the hunting hound. Breck looked from her to study the surrounding area, though he could find no sign of the dogs payload. Brow furrowed, the Taexali finally approached the defeated savage.

“What happened?” Disinterested in Vachir’s discomfort, Breck kicked the girl over and onto her back, the wicked action eliciting a groan from the woman’s bloodied lips. There was blood on the woman’s teeth, though it didn’t look as though she had had any knocked out, nor did it look as though it was flooding her mouth. Similarly, her hands were covered in the stuff, up past her wrists like gloves. Breck was not surprised, he had fought a hound before and in that instance, he had been bitten several times. “Vachir!”

The woman in question coughed somewhat, a second kick seeming to bring her out of her stupor. She peeped open one of her eyes, its usual brilliance clouded by blood and exhaustion. Vachir spluttered some, spitting up a mix of blood and saliva at the sight of Breck standing over her, disgust in his eyes.

“Go away.” Her voice was raw and hoarse, sounding pained and painful in her throat. Vachir bolstered herself up onto her elbows, wincing as she realised they were bruised and scraped. She blinked away her blurry vision and glanced around, eyes searching for that lump of a Volur she had kidnapped from the Venicones but showing no reaction when they couldn’t find her. Instead, she seemed to resign herself to laying in the dirt within the shadow of Breck who remained unmoving even after he had been told where to go. This blatant disobedience was nothing new to Vachir, but in this instance, it really irked her. “What?! I said go away.” Snarling, she flung a handful of dirt and stones up at the Taexali.

Breck merely quirked an eyebrow as the stuff bounced off of his shining leathers. “With skills like that, no wonder you lost the Volur.” His words were made to sting, and bring Vachir to her senses. It didn’t seem as though she had realised her predicament yet. Neither did it seem as though his words were heeded, instead of asking for further explanation, Vachir just struggled to her feet, batting away the helping hand Breck offered her with a scowl and a grunt. She was such an animal.

It was then, in the strained sunlight that a sparkle caught his eye. There around Vachir’s neck rested an amulet of Volur origin. He could tell by the shine in the metalwork, and the way the chain was entertained rather than interlocked. Two strands of metal melded and folded together, rather than chain links hooked up to one another as it was here, beyond the border. Without hesitation, he reached for it and grabbed it. Rather than have it snap off in his hand, it only pulled Vachir closer.

“What’s this?”

“It’s mine!” Hissing, Vachir pushed Breck away from her. Her skin crawling under the urgency in the man’s voice.

“It’s of the Volur,” snapping, Breck re-established his hold over the necklace and once again, dragged Vachir into him with a jerk. “Where did you get this?” Folding his hand into a fist around the amulet, Breck held it tight within his grasp and looked into Vachir’s foggy gaze, firm and hard. The stare was enough to still Vachir’s movements as she tried to pry herself away from the man, uncomfortable in her proximity with such a foul beast.

“It was a gift.” Unwilling to go any further into details, Vachir sagged under the questioning glare from the Taexali leader. “It’s mine anyway, get off!” Dragging up what little energy she had left in her, Vachir wrestled herself free and shoved Breck back, or at least, she tried to. Instead, she stumbled away from the man, feeling weakness in her legs before she found a tree to lean against. What was this? In the past, whenever she had pushed Breck, the toad would fall back. In the past, whenever she had struck the man, it had shaken him. Now, Breck was as a pillar, unmoved by Vachir’s efforts.

“Fool! I told you never to trust anything from a Volur.” Breck watched the pitiful husk Vachir had become, stumbling over her own feet and gripping to the bark of a petrified tree as if her life depended on it. Her limbs were awkward and unbalanced, eyes wild and unfocused. The skin around the amulet had started to turn a painful red colour, even against the black of Vachir’s tattooed chest.

“You expect me to believe everything you say?” Despite her physical strength failing her, Vachir managed to keep her tongue sharp. If everything else abandoned her, she would at least be able to insult Breck to death. “I trust you least of all!” She pushed herself off of the tree and barrelled into Breck in an attempt to throw him back, show that she was the stronger of the two. Unfortunately, it seemed to hurt her more than it hurt him.

“Me least of all.” Sighing, Breck caught the girl out of instinct. He steadied the girl too, only to strike her hard across the face, “Though, not in this instance.” His punch knocked Vachir to the ground. If anyone else had been there, perhaps the hound could have been reasoned with. Without the Volur and her voice of reason, it was left to Breck to teach the beast the only way it could be taught; through pain.

Not to be defeated so easily, Vachir grabbed onto her attackers legs. The action was pitiful, from Breck’s angle. But when Vachir rolled into him, he finally understood the method to the madness. Breck was felled like a tree, he fell to her back and there, he became vulnerable for a short moment. Vachir was upon her in an instant, seeming to crawl on top of him. Her movements were slow and uncoordinated, though it had seemed as though she had begun to realise her lack of power over him. So instead of trying to pin him with her strength, knowing her muscles would fail her, Vachir tried to pin him beneath her weight.

It was not enough. Breck made a noise of protest, half way between a grunt and a hiss as he quickly over turned their positions, pinning Vachir beneath him effortlessly, knees locking into the insides of her elbows fixing the woman’s arms by her side. He cared little for the pain he knew it would cause and instead focussed upon the amulet. Deftly, Breck grabbed it tight and pulled hard. The metal bit into Vachir’s skin and neck, drawing blood as it was wrenched from her throat. With it gone, she suddenly felt it easier to breath, even with Breck sitting on her stomach.

“This!” Breck showed it to her briefly, a fierceness in his eyes, “Is the sole reason you feel so weak. It’s the reason why a bunch of believers and farmers so easily overwhelmed you, it’s the reason the Volur was taken.”

Vachir looked at the dull steel unimpressed, “It’s just a necklace.”

“It’s enchanted. The Volur enchant all their things. You know that, Vachir.” His voice began to soften, noticing now that Vachir had not asked for any of this and could not be blamed for her naivety. “It’s been poisoning you ever since you put it on.” He gestured towards Vachir’s chest, and the dark red burn that had started to form there, where several indents, caused by the amulet, had allowed the poison in the vial to enter her blood stream. “Weakening you to the point of an infant.” He grinned then, resting back on his haunches and Vachir shaped throne. “It’s why you’ve been served twice today.”

Vachir frowned deeply and tried to remove herself from the Taexali’s grip to no avail. Breck shook his head at her, pocketing the amulet safely, its effects wasted on him.

“Not yet pup, it was draining you for days. It will take you twice as long to regain that which you have lost,” finally, deciding Vachir had suffered enough, Breck stood up off of her . “Unfortunately, we don’t have the luxury of time.”

Grumbling, Vachir struggled to a sitting position, a pain twisting in her stomach. She looked down to see a gash stretch across its expanse, then she looked up to Breck and tried to stand. Breck did not offer her a helping hand this time.

“Not since you lost the Volur to a pack of zealots.” Breck neither twitched nor complained as Vachir used him as a climbing post to help herself to her feet. “Unfortunately, we’ll have to work together on this one.”

“I’m no use to anyone this way.” Grudgingly, Vachir leaned against the armoured man, finding her own body too heavy to hold up alone. Even with the amulet gone from her neck, she still felt as weak as a sapling.

“Oh Vachir, I had never thought you useful before anyway,” smiling in that mocking way that was so familiar to the hunting hound, Breck gave the girl a sideward glance. He quietly noted the arm that was held tight across her stomach, palm wide and pressed against a wound. Vachir made no complaint about it, as admirable as it was foolish.

“The group that took her were Venicones stragglers. Believers in the Volur. Willing slaves that no self respecting Taexali would enslave.” No, they liked their slaves to be spirited. There was more satisfaction in breaking them that way. “I imagine that they hope to present the Volur to the Dreahanians as some sort of gesture of good will.” He had seen it before, weakened clans trying to garner the respect of one of the larger ones through gifts of flesh and blood or promises of land and territory. They had never been successful before, but this time, the underdogs had something the both the Dreahanians and Taexali desperately wanted. Perhaps it would be just enough to pique the Dreahanians interest. “Of course. We cannot allow that to happen.”

Breck didn’t mention the way Vachir was leaning on him so heavily, and neither did the Venicones make mention of the arm that snaked around her waist, supporting her as it ushered her towards a fallen tree. These acts of compassion went unmentioned, but not unnoticed or unappreciated. Breck knew that Vachir would not allow herself to appreciate him in any function, and similarly, Vachir knew that Breck would not allow himself to actively give a damn about the wounded hound. “They plan on crossing our territory to reach the Dreahanians?”

“No. I doubt it.” Breck stopped himself and his cargo beside the decaying log and turned to help Vachir to a sitting position atop its strong oak. “The Dreahanian’s do not simply meet with every crazed lunatic offering them gifts.” Satisfied that Vachir was relatively comfortable, Breck stepped away from her and stood before her, “Most likely, they would have sent an ambassador to solidify or debunk the claims.”

Breathing slowly and purposefully, Vachir glanced up then, head tilted somewhat. “An ambassador would have to pass through our lands.” Breck nodded in agreement. “So, we intercept them?”

“Without a doubt.” There was a smidgeon of pride swelling in his voice. Vachir was a quick learner.

----------------------------END OF INTERMISSION------------------------------
I wanna tear you down, brick by brick.

She proved to have a different vision to the Taexali leaders, Vachir did not want to absorb the lesser clans, she just wanted to devour them. Each strike she made, it was to further reiterate that the Taexali were superior. Many tribes fell beneath her wrath, crumbling and ultimately disbanding into nothingness. Knocked into history by the swing of her blade and the thrust of her spear, she was not to questioned, not to be trifled with and whenever she breached the horizon, blood was sure to be shed. Within a year or so, she took Breck’s position and he became her second in command.

Vachir roamed the territories, at their helm, raiding villages, pillaging and laying waste to whatever diminutive force tried to stand against her. She slaughtered men, women, children and even animals, she was feared. Her name, Vachir cropped up in bed time stories told to children, to warn them that she would take them away one night should they misbehave or disrespect their parents. The Dreahanians knew of her by name, though there were no records of her appearance or of her being a woman at all. With the masculine nature of her new name, she was written down as a man in the records of the Dreahanians. Described by them as but another disgusting Taezali, small in stature, broad of chest and nose and stinking of death. In battles with the Dreahanians, she was often disregarded and many of her men were often mistaken for her. Those captured professed to being the Vachir, their loyalty to her outweighing any desire they had to live. Naturally, after several captured Taexali claimed to be Vachir, the Dreahanians began to click on that this Vachir character had eluded them.

By the age of twenty-five, several years since she had become a Taexali, Vachir had conquered over a hundred territories (of varying sizes), on the behest of her Commander. She was known, even to their enemies as the she-demon of the Taexali. Her presence as an active military force was viewed as unnatural, as was her strength and aptitude for weaponry, many of her enemies viewed her only as a Hun and never as a woman. It was difficult for them to look upon her as being the same creature as their whores and wives when she was capable of tearing them limb from limb.

She had not been around for the beginning of the Taexali expansion, but she was there at the end. When the leader was killed, Vachir was captured by Dreahanians, along with most of her Legion. However, Vachir made a deal with her captors, when she professed to being the elusive Vachir, they had not believed her until she had ordered her second in command to confirm the fact. In exchange for her execution, she asked only that her men be freed, calling them mere farmers in armour. Vachir was led to believe that the Dreahanians held up their end of the bargain while she was held for several months in their prison, her men were killed shortly after she herself was.

[Violetta Vega Vicente]

----------------------------INTERMISSION------------------------------
When I‘m gone, like a raven in the grave

Blood bubbled up in her mouth and she grinned wide and toothy, the liquid seeping through whatever small gaps there were between her teeth, a frightening sight to behold. For a moment a feeling of dread settled in his stomach as he observed her, wondering whether he had double knotted her bonds or not? Wondering if she was trying to wriggle free of them, horrified to think that perhaps she could. He watched her closely, unable to look away from the smile of blood and teeth, the wild eyes and equally as wild hair. When they had pulled her from the battlefield, they had thought she was just some wench whore, one of the Taexali men’s tag along, meant to shine his boots and keep the train of his cloak from dragging in the dirt. They had thought it strange, her being so covered in blood and gripping a machete like, but once she had been captured, they had thought nothing of it. Then they had asked the other prisoners, questioning them one by one, trying to smoke out their leader, their damned Vachir. Vigilantly, they had all gone mute at the mention of their dog lord king, each playing dumb to his existence, despite serving beneath him for the best part of six years.

And then, she had stood up, perched on a bench between two mountains of men, neither appearing to struggle with giving her a wide berth. That too was strange, they had thought squashing battle worn, doomed to die men into a cell with a woman would lead to all kinds of primitive debauchery that they had expected from such dogs. Instead, they had stayed clear of her, moved out of her path, some even offered her their water, while others offered her their clothes to better wrap her scantily clad body. They seemed to huddle around her like some kind of protective shell of fleshy bodies, no hand was laid upon her and even at night, when slumber crept in between the bars of the cell, she was left to rest in peace. Eventually, she was questioned and when she neither shivered nor flinched as a blade was drawn across her thigh, her captors had begun to think outside of the box. Perhaps she was Vachir.

“I am Vachir.”

Her admission was met with a heavy blow to the face, a fist of swollen knuckles that had already broken her cheekbone, she had not whimpered though, the sight of the weeping flesh splitting to bear the bones beneath was enough to put her spirits up. Doherty, as he had called himself, was doing himself just as much damage as he was doing to her with this so-called inquisition of his. Already she had admitted to being Vachir, several times, but he had not believed her.

“One more time, she-demon.” As he stumbled back, waving his bleeding hand around, she had spat out the blood his latest assault had dragged out of her.

“I’m still Vachir.”

“The Vachir? The Vachir who rides at the helm of a legion of mad dogs, blazing a path across the known world? The Vachir who has slaughtered seven hundred and twenty three innocent people? You are that Vachir?”

She hesitated, for a brief moment, if not just to bask in the glory of her achievements. Then, she shook her head softly. “No, I’m seven hundred and thirty two Vachir, don’t worry. A lot of people mix up the three and the two. Sixteen clans, I had to kill them all. That’s what happens when a new cat comes into town, you have to kill them all. Even the kids, you don’t want the spawn of the dog you just chewed up to grow up and bite you in the ass years later.” She reclined into the wooden chair she had been strapped into, finding comfort in the way the grain splintered into her skin, never once complaining about the poor workmanship that had gone into producing it. “It’s all in the preparation. Anyone can be a pillaging bastard, but not everyone can be Vachir.”

The ease with which she spoke of her crimes, admitting to slitting the throats of babes, trapping the doors of huts and burning entire families within, none of it had ever kept her from sleeping soundly at night. She didn’t mind the screaming or the pleas to stop, she didn’t mind the carnage or the fact that it was ultimately unnecessary, but she hated it when she wasn’t given the proper credit for her actions. It was all to easy for her really, few ever suspected her capable of such acts of cruelty, and that was why she was her own armies best scout. She was rarely questioned by the tribes people, never on the receiving end of their hostility, women trusted her to walk amidst their yappy pups and some even ran to her when she returned days later just as her army had begun to lay siege to their homes and families. They ran to her, she caught them, and she disposed of them. It was all too easy, sometimes it took the flavour out of it, but then she stopped to look around at the pile of corpses she had felled and the taste of chaos returned to her with a vengeance.

It tasted like iron, just as her blood did. A metallic tang difficult to appreciate, but she had grown to relish it. Because of that hunger, she almost wished that Doherty would hit her again, though this time, with a little strength.

“Am I to believe this?” His voice seemed to tremble, it was a difficult pill to swallow but he could see no humanity behind her blood shot eyes. The thing before him was not a woman like his wife, or of the same gentle naivety of his daughter, though neither was she deceptively fiery (with a soft heart) like his mistress. She was an animal, a monster shaped like a woman. A creature of the void, darkness and terror built in human form.

She shrugged. “Perhaps if you did, we can move beyond the murdering and get onto the raping and pillaging.” He regarded her with a steely gaze, no shift from the way he had looked a her before. “Accounts of both were numerous and quite frequent, with varying degrees of satisfaction.”

“Why have you done this? How did you find yourself here and not-”

“We were outnumbered, you flanked us. I had expected that, but my men weren’t up to scratch; too much raping and pillaging the night before. I hadn’t planned on being captured but, these things happen.” She had known he had meant in the grander scheme of things. He wanted to know how she had become what she was, instead of what she could have been had things worked out differently for her. Vachir couldn’t answer him correctly, she had forgotten about how Sloane had melded into Vachir and further forgotten about her days as a Venicones, returning only to wipe them from the face of the earth. There were few things she could have done with her life, very few things that rose beyond the mediocrity of being wife and mother. Instead, she had decided to carve her name upon the land.

“Why?” He pressed the question, shaking his head almost constantly as he soaked up the sight of her, every part of the image making him sick, confusing his senses and speaking to that primitive part of him that begged him to cut her head from her shoulders. Just as she had done to so many others before.

“Why not?”

They had arranged for her execution the next day.

----------------------------END OF INTERMISSION------------------------------
Young lovers sure won‘t spring from these evil seeds.

Under Dreahanian imprisonment, Vachir was tortured gruesomely until the date of her execution. Whilst a prisoner, she was given the name Burilgi by her captors and often humiliated. Her death was a public event, and staged with absolute precision. First, she was flogged in the street, an appetizer for the baying crowds. Secondly, she was dragged by horse through the mud and dirt of her armies camp, being pulled through rotting corpses of fellow Taexali and of defeated Drehanian’s alike. Finally, she was gored, her hands and feet were affixed to posts by nails and she was left in the decaying battlegrounds for animals to feed upon before starvation and dehydration claimed her.

Vachir, Burligi, Sloane, died three days after. Her body was later discovered by a travelling merchant who mistook her for a victim of the chaos and gave her a funeral pyre, during which he was approached by Dreahanian soldiers who explained her identity. Rather than flee in disgust, he remained to gather her ashes in the hopes that he could sell them to an enemy of hers for a hefty price. Unfortunately for him, he had severely underestimated just how vilified she had been in her life and was unsuccessful in finding a buyer. Neither was he able to find a place to scatter them without incurring some kinds of violent wrath according to each areas Volur. It wasn’t until he reached India that he managed to get rid of them, just as well, because he had been sure that her ghost was haunting him.

Of course, by then Burligi had come to wander the earth in spirit form, she had followed him vigilantly. At first, she had thought that she had somehow survived her execution and followed the merchant whilst bombarding him with questions and accusations. It had taken her some time to realise that he could neither see, nor hear her. When she figured it out, she was too far gone from the land she knew that she just decided to see where he was taking her ashes.

In India, he found a place the locals called the Cremation grounds and there, he scattered the ashes of a great evil. There, Burligi became Kali.

The chain in her chest had begun to grow heavier until she could walk with it no more. She became fixed to the lands in which her ashes had been spread, chained to the cremation grounds. While there a man in black visited her. He explained many things to her, but his intentions became clear when he spoke of offering her some chance at redemption.

----------------------------INTERMISSION------------------------------
Wait, a war in Heaven?

“Do you not seek redemption?” His was a fine face, looking to have been chiselled out of the makers clay to such perfection it was sickening. To make things even worse, he seemed to have the same perfection inside, a mind of good and honourable making. A polar opposite to the seething rage that bubbled beneath her surface. His good looks did little to chink her armour, she was not as others were, she did not place so much upon appearance and as she looked into the swirl of his golden eyes, she questioned whether he was mocking her or not. “If you are truly remorseful, I can offer you redemption.” He had said his name was Kazuo, some kind of collision of accents and lilting of the vowels that she did not recognise. It had nothing of the harshness of Vachir or Burligi. It was soft and without weight; unimportant.

She said nothing, forced to kneel in the dirt by the weight of the chain protruding from her chest. It had been so long since she had spoken that she doubted her tongue was still capable of forming words, it made little difference, she did not want to entertain this man any more than she already did. It was easy for him to act the superior, stood as he was above her, the black of his uniform catching on the winds breeze. “The things you have done are truly evil, but you have the capacity to change, Burligi.” He knelt so that his eyes could meet hers on an even level, some fool had probably told him that doing so would engender her trust in him. Burligi was not so transparent. “I can offer you that chance. You can do great things if you are doing them on the behalf of the greater good.” The sword attached to his hip was just as foreign as he, it looked delicate and flimsy to her eyes, not even half the width of her machete. The hilt too was decorated with designs of flowers and waves, etched into the steel with an artists precision rather than smashed into creation by the hammer of a blacksmith. She gambled that he couldn’t cut bread with the damn thing.

“You’ll cleanse me of my crimes then induct me into your greater good army?” It seemed contradictory to her, every army, no matter their moral standing, inflicted damage and spread death. He would take away her crimes, only to have her repeat the same ones, but under a different pretence. “And if I change my mind about this deal of ours, once I’ve gone through your crucible, what then?” Would she see a far darker side to the supposed harmony of his nature?

“You have seen what becomes of those evil souls, do you really wish that upon yourself?” Now, feeling that he might be losing her, he decided to use her vanity against her. Though he had gone about it the wrong way, the option of being good came with retaining her face and form as it was now and always had been, but the contrary was a fate much more bestial. The latter appealed to her hunger for power, it just seemed superior to the lithe, fleshy forms of humans in black robes. Of course, he could not know that was how her mind functioned, because he did not truly know Burligi.

“A horrific fate would be the one I most deserve, would it not?” Besides, they didn’t look all that bad, some were quite hideous, whilst others had a monstrous sort of appeal to them. “Mines is not a willing nature, Shinigami. I have the capacity to change, but not to fit your mould, I feel that few could, other than babes and farmers, all those without blood staining their soul.” And with that thought, she realised that his army could only be filled by weaklings, those with souls clean enough to enter his paradise were the souls of victims she or any other villain had slain. They were not a soldier’s soul, and then she began to think that neither was his.

“If I leave here, the next time I return will be to slay you, Burligi.” Visibly saddened by her deduction of the situation, he sighed and straightened up to stand straight, one again adopting a position of dominance and superiority over her kneeling form. One hand settled upon the shining hilt of his sword, as if in warning, but she merely smiled up at him, a half-grin that could only be described as predatory.

“I can do great things, Shinigami. Great, terrible things.” Mocking his words of moments ago, she tugged hard at the chain in her chest whilst readjusting herself so that she could struggle to a standing position. Her height greater than his, she gripped at whatever power she could over him whilst lurched slightly, to level her gaze with his own as she spoke, low and foreboding.

“If you return to me, you return to die, Shinigami.”

She would suffer no more of his charity, with those words, Burligi condemned herself to become a hollow and an enemy of the so called greater good, he gave her no second chance to reconsider, perhaps burned by the sting of her words. Instead, he merely stepped back and into some void in the reality around them, and he was gone.

----------------------------END OF INTERMISSION------------------------------
I hate it when they forget to let people in.

In her travels, she had started to morph and change into something unnatural, something that resembled the evil that thrived within her. Horn protruded from her head, her teeth began serrated and her skin darkened to black, her face grew a bony outside layer and a hunger grew deep within her. The people of India seemed to be more in tune with the spiritual side of life and many claimed to see a foreboding creature lurking around the Cremation grounds. Disbelieving such claims, others were drawn to the sight to catch a glimpse of this otherworldly being, by then, Burligi had grown. She feasted on the souls of those that came to see her, she grew larger, stronger, hungrier and eventually her form was that of a monstrous woman. Instead of two arms, she had four. Her fangs grew larger, sharper and more ferocious. Her tongue, too large for her mouth and always lolling out in some crazed fashion. Her eyes, reddened with murderous rage, or that was how it was written. They called her Kali, a goddess from their religion that lacked embodiment and a real image. From her, Kali’s appearance was written.

They praised her and worshipped her and those that could communicate with her, followed out her orders. Kali had grown so strong that she could think beyond her unending hunger, she could speak and plan and fight without being blinded by her primal instincts.

MORE TO COME (as in the important details of how she became an Arrancar then Espada)


(Describe the past life of your character, how they died, how they became a hollow, how they became arrancar and how they have reached where they are now.)

RP Sample:

The ringleader of the ankle biters was the most successful of the group to come close to the blonde harbinger of foamy doom. From the blood tarnished pigtails and the torn sundress, Laine could guess it had been a little girl. Even now, she would probably still be the apple of her fathers eye, but whoever he was, there was a very good chance he laid dead on the first floor, or perhaps he had even been the suited feral to attack Christie. The same feral that now had a skull full of lead thanks to the red head. Well, Laine didn’t have the same mental fortitude as either the female or the male marine. She was more of a life saver than a life taker, and that was why she just continued to step further back from the snarling little girl. Her first kill hand been purely accidental, the kid had scared the living daylights out of her, how else was she supposed to respond? Even with that in mind, she didn’t think she had it in her to dispose of the little girl in the same brutal manner as the man had. Laine had never launched a punch into a face, let alone a child’s face. In fact, she’d always thought she’d miss the mark and the result would be her having her ass kicked. She had to get a grip, and she knew it. This wasn’t a choice, she didn’t have the luxury to play the pacifist, no this was a do or die situation and while Laine didn’t claim to know everything, she certainly knew she’d rather be living than be dead. Or undead.

She clutched at the beaked levers of the extinguisher with one hand, and the metal arm of the nozzle while the little girl began to remove herself from the slippery grip of the foamy carpet that was causing such trouble for her salivating peers. Just as the girl reached what Laine gauged to be the perfect distance, the nurse twisted her upper body to one side, lifting the extinguisher high enough so that it would hit its target, then she seemed to snap back into place. The resulting clang and clatter was enough to saddle Laine with that irreplaceable feeling of guilt. Not only had she managed a perfect strike against the side of the little girls head, but the force of the impact had thrown her to the side and into one of the book shelves, the sharp edges of which were just right for dislodging and chipping tiny baby teeth and hard enough to bust a slightly messy button nose, sending particles of bone straight up and into the brain. As if it hadn’t suffered enough of a trauma from the doubly hard blunt force.

Laine, speechless from her own actions, simply shook her head at the red-heads question. Doubtful that the woman could even see her properly from where she was standing, still she couldn’t form words at the moment. Besides, she didn’t need to lodge a bullet in the child’s brain to know that she was dead. The human form could take a lot of punishment, but the brain was the Achilles heel. Any damage incurred to that was bad news. Even the solid casing of the skull that housed it was a very real threat to it. Laine watched the girls body fall, limbs taking on the fluidity of a rag doll and head rolling loosely around the axis point of her neck. She didn’t stare for too long, knowing full well that the danger had not receded because of her one perfectly executed execution. Snot-nosed others would come to try where she had failed, and Laine didn’t have the time to warm up properly. Meaning, she was going to be sore in the morning. Better than being dead anyway, but still, uncomfortable.

She figured ‘hell storm,’ was polite for ‘all fucked up,’ and maybe to downplay the sheer degree of how fucked up it really was outside. The only thing holding back the horde were the walls of this Library, and the tricky door handles that seemed to be enough to outsmart the majority of the feral. Those that lingered on in the hopes of making a meal out of them had collectively honed in on their location. Masses of them were mounting the stairwell, creeping up to take a gander at the goods on offer. Some tasted the business end of the shooters firearm, but others would come. And they did. Regardless of how hell stormy it apparently was, the red-head made it abundantly clear that they just had to vacate the library.

Christie, as if sensing the heavy assault that Laine was facing, appeared to offer some handy relief. Grudgingly (as it was the only real barrier between Laine and the snappers) she allowed the Librarian to reclaim her golden chariot (trolley) and watched as it was hurled down the aisle, knocking over those still reeling from the first strike. Others, whom had learned from the first incident, leaped to the side just in time to avoid being bowled over. Books buried the stragglers at the back and Christie appeared to be happy enough with that to leave them laying around as ticking time bombs. Well, Laine wasn’t. She wasn’t into leaving loose ends around. She didn’t want to have to worry about these little rats biting her in the ass when her back was turned. Those that had avoided an impromptu burial were even quicker to dance around the soaked up trail of foam, as Christie skipped out of their peripheral vision in order to aid the red-head, they had eyes only for Laine.

The first was struck down by a similar strike that the girl had suffered, but she didn’t have enough time to regain momentum in order to batter down the boy that followed. Stupidly, she’d left herself wide open like a Laney buffet. Fortunately, as the boy lunged towards her, he collided with her side which was protected adequately enough by her satchel. Still, the overabundance of added weight that she was carrying toppled her, and in the child’s favour as she played human cushion to his virus ravaged body.

It was all she could to pull her knee up before he could secure himself above her, in prime mauling position. Her knee caught him in the chest and held him back just long enough for Laine pick up a heavy hard back book and use it to smack him off and to the side. And as he swayed out of her immediate vision, another appeared directly behind him in mid flight towards her prone self. Instinct was quicker than logical thought, and Laine rolled herself to the side, avoiding direct impact. Logical thought was always a close second, so that’s why she smacked the back of the kids head with her Oxford dictionary, before he could attack for a second time. A third came closing in, but she was on her feet by the time the girl came close. It looked as though they were getting older by the second. This one was at least ten years old, and charging at Laine. The blonde could see others behind the girl, she could see the two boys at either side of her starting to gear up again.

So Laine went up. EH?! Yeah, she discarded her fire extinguisher and started climbing up the book case, using its various shelves at hand holds and foot holds to help her scale higher. She wasn’t panicking. Laine was betting on the children following her. She was hoping that they’d climb that book case like their previous selves had climbed trees. And they did. Laine was quick to reach the top, her height giving her a clear advantage over the children. Rather than climb onto the solid surface of the top, Laine perched her upper half atop it, while her legs dangled like appetizers willing the children onwards. All the while she was pushing down upon the book case, all the while they were disturbing the division of weight and the case began to wobble. Laine felt it, the kids didn’t care, and as the tween got close enough to reach for Laine’s foot, the blonde kicked down at her and pulled herself up fully. The action enough to push the teetering book case off the scale and crashing down to the floor atop the bodies of the children.

Laine didn’t have time to hold on tightly, so she hit the other side of the case hard, her head included. The blonde didn’t allow time for a concussion to set in before she was scrambling back to her feet and clambering free from the wooden skeleton of the toppled bookcase, spitting up blood and remaining lucid enough to remember to pick up her fire extinguisher as she jogged towards Christie and the shooter, who both appeared to be in a predicament of their own. Christie’s intervention seemed to remove the red-head from danger, but the Librarian took her place.

“Push up, then down!” What did she know about er…axe-work? Not much, but from her angle it didn’t look like Christie was wiggling the axe enough to wrench it free of the mans sternum. Deciding that it might be nice to help out, Laine approached and mimicked the same low swinging action from before, battering the extinguisher into the core of the man, it wasn’t enough to floor him, or even fully remove the axe from his chest and that was because she’d had to limit the arc of her strike to as not to hit Christie. Frustrated, Laine repositioned herself in front of the beast and lifted trusty Red up with both hands.

Laine, no longer hesitant in the use of extreme violence against these fiends smashed the butt of her fire extinguisher into the twisted face of the wild man. Once wasn’t enough to convince him to give the fuck up, but that’s ok, ‘cause Laine had another bash. And another. And a fourth, each more devastating than the last, each more heavily fuelled by a destructive mix of anger, fear and the simple need to survive. Sure, these beasts were hungry for flesh, but Laine was starving to live. And so, on her fifth strike, she broke skin and bone and grey brain matter. Seeing that gravity would soon do its work, Laine dropped her fire extinguisher beside her and lent her hands and strength to Christie’s efforts in pulling the axe free.

A resounding snap sounded as it broke free of the mans sternum, and further disgruntled noises could be heard as his body found the floor, where he stirred no longer. A small victory, especially considering the mass of numbers held back by a simple table. Haste was of the essence and Laine was quite sure she’d understood what the red-head was trying to do, so that’s why she set down her fire extinguisher and instead started picking up chair after chair that was settled neatly beneath the nearest table and proceeded to fling them into the crowd crawling up the stairwell. She didn’t even make mention about how she was growing tired, or how her head hurt, or how something seemed to be up with her left leg. Instead, Laine shook off any slither of fatigue, fought back the darkness of a concussion and stamped out her slight limp. Like Elizabeth, Laine refused to die here.

“This is good, but we need a more permanent solution.” Namely, a distraction, Laine pushed the table out of its position by the force of just one leg, nudging it towards the red-head. They couldn’t just charge through the crowd, Christie had already said there were no exits up here, so the only way was down. An idea was forming in her mind, but it kept itself just out of reach of her minds eye, leaving her unable to piece it together properly or even voice it.

“Don’t you have any fancy grenades or something? Flash bombs?” They’d blind them as much as the beasts. “Smoke bombs?” Same story. “Anything?!” Her agitation was clear, with everything her mind offered her, she realised how short a plank it was they were walking.

Final Acceptance: I am here, I have read of the rules. I tell no lies.