Veeza

32

Argonian

Male

The Lord

Combat

Brawler

When in the thick of combat, Veeza’s opponents and onlookers alike find it easy to mistake the massive Argonian for a dragon. Standing at six foot five, with dull red scales the color of blood pulled taught over tightly coiled muscles, Veeza is a giant. His tail, thick and muscular like the rest of him, is a dangerous weapon in it’s own right. Atop his head lies a mismatched crown of spikes, varying from half a palm to a full palm in length, about as wide as a sword hilt at the base, tapering into sharp points at the tip. Many of them are chipped, while a few are broken off entirely, leaving bony, jagged stumps in their place. Veeza’s eyes are a pale, sickly yellow, with pupils as lizard-like as the rest of him.

While his scales act as a natural defense, if not one that is entirely impressive, their propensity to regrow given enough time is the only boon that keeps him relatively scar free. In the case, however, of a wayward spear that found itself buried in Veeza’s stomach, the scales did not regrow, and a knot of angry pink scar tissue remains just up and to the left of his belly’s navel. Veeza dons a simple set of iron armor sans helmet in the hopes of preventing future scarring of any kind. Rarely will one find the Argonian outside of his armor, though he owns a pair of cloth trousers just in case he desires to swim.

As opposed to his intimidating appearance, Veeza is actually quite the personable fellow. Conversation comes easily enough when he’s able to relax in the moment, though he often comes across as detached and somewhat irritable when stressed. He never fails to speak his mind regardless of what he desires to say, and puts little stock in the opinions of others, especially those seeking to denounce him. Typically, those capable of intelligent, polite conversation as well as feats of valor upon the field of battle can earn his respect, while those that lack the former will also be subject to his ire.

In battle, Veeza stands stoic against the enemy, ready to endure blows meant for others and dish out the pain he’s receiving tenfold upon his opponents. It is in the middle of a good fight that the Argonian feels most at home, and his mind seems clearest. The thrill of fighting for his life against worthy adversaries is simultaneously both thrilling and terrifying, feelings that are magnified as he crushes bones aided by nothing but his own immense strength and a gauntleted fist. He excels at fighting both aggressively and defensively, and has not yet been in a situation forcing him to lose his cool.

Veeza’s Biography - Prologue - Drunken Lizard

Gulum-Ra sighed, looking down at the small Argonian child swathed in blankets, resting on the floor of the small hovel the two shared together in the Waterfront. “Your mother was the fighter, boy. Not me. She was the one that fought for everything we have. Had. Every day she went back into that arena, that damn arena, so she could pull the weight of her useless son and his addict father. That’s us, you piece of sewer filth. Taseel always said that you had the makings of a fighter, like her. Strong bones, she said. Lots of energy. She wanted you to go train with your uncle in Kvatch, so you could be a big strong fighter just like her.” Gulum-Ra paused abruptly, his bitter tone ceasing, as he took a swig of ale. He shook the bottle discontentedly; it was nearly empty. “Well she went into that arena again today, and guess where that got her? Nowhere. She’s dead. So tomorrow morning I’m going to pay the first capable stranger I see as much as it takes to get you to that uncle of yours. He’ll train you to be a fighter-” Swig. “-like your mom. Who knows, maybe you’ll join her. I, however, will take the rest of my funds and purchase enough skooma to fatally overdose-” Swig. Empty. “-ten times over. I’ll never have to see your stupid face again.” Gulum-Ra continued his tirade for a while longer before sinking to the floor a few feet away from his son, drifting into a drunken stupor. Veeza continued to pretend he was asleep.

Veeza’s Biography - Part 1 - Nothing But A Pair Of Fists

Veeza’s uncle was a stern and uncompromising man, either things were done his way or not at all. From the moment Gulum-Ra thrust Veeza into Mush-La’s care, there was no time to do anything but train. Even at age three, the young Argonian was worked to near exhaustion every day with a series of intensive workouts meant to build up his muscular endurance and strength, his uncle shouting encouragement or criticism as necessary every step of the way. From an early age he learned to remain cool in the midst of stressful situations; Mush-La was almost as physically imposing as Veeza would one day become.

Through his younger years and into adolescence, he was trained with a variety of weapons in a variety of different styles of combat, either by his uncle or fighters from the arena aiding Mush-La for the sake of coin or camaraderie. It was at twelve years old, when Veeza nearly caved in the face of another child that was harassing him, that he knew he wanted to focus on hand to hand combat. Mush-La, having spent most of his life fighting in Kvatch’s arena, was one of the few that had mastered the art of warfare without weaponry. From then on, Veeza’s lessons would focus on the fine art of rupturing organs and shattering skulls with nothing but a pair of fists.

Veeza’s Biography - Part 2 - Graduation Day

The years seemed to fly by after that, and things fell into their own steady rhythm. Not yet allowed to fight in the arena, Veeza spent much of his time in the bloodworks, picking up some basic first aid to provide help to wounded combatants whenever he had free time. Mush-La always refused his help, however. It almost seemed fitting that a few weeks after Veeza’s seventeenth birthday he entered the arena alive for the last time, leaving it as a corpse. Though a few members of the red team mourned for the unexpected loss, Veeza was not among them. His uncle was a mean man, and though he respected Mush-La as a teacher, there was no love between them.

Besides, now was not the time to dwell on thoughts of mortality. Veeza had already scheduled his first match.

Veeza’s Biography - Part 3 - The Pit Dragon

The Orc before Veeza was big. Veeza was bigger. The fight did not last as long as one might think, in all honesty. The green brute charged the Argonian in a blind fury. Sloppy. The two grappled together throughout the arena, each holding on to the Orc’s axe with grips like vices. Eventually, Veeza managed to drive his opponent against a pillar, stunning him for a brief moment. In an instant the weapon was out of their hands and skittering across the floor of the arena. He took the opportunity to seize the defenseless Orc by his tusks, ramming the back of the warrior’s head into the stone pillar again, and again, and again. The opposing pit dog ended up dropping to the floor like a bag of stones, the back of his head a bloody paste. Veeza still held onto his tusks, one in each hand.

The trend of brutal, uncontested victories continued throughout most of Veeza’s career. Years later he would still be known as the Pit Dragon in recognition of both his race and his ferocity on the battlefield, even as a new a new blood; a pit dog.

It was during the fight that would promote him to the rank of gladiator did Veeza receive his one and only scar. His opponent was well bred and well trained, a Nord known as Nilki Silver-Head. He never figured out whether that was in recognition of her prowess with her silver tipped spear, or for her striking platinum hair, tied back into a long pony tail. The match was nearly a disgraceful defeat for Veeza, within ten minutes of dodging her attacks and failing to disarm the woman, she had him close to death leaning against a pillar, her spear burrowed deep into his flesh. Hubris, however, can be a powerful tool. Nilki had turned her back to Veeza, shouting to the roaring crowd in triumph, a dagger as silver as both her spear and hair clutched within her left hand. She wanted to finish things up close and personal. Veeza fulfilled her wishes. He snapped the spear off at the head, using the shaft of wood to sweep Nilki’s legs out from under her. One more moment and he was straddling her back, his hands grasping at her hair, pulling upwards as hard as he could with the tip of her spear burrowing deeper into him. She screamed in terror for only a short while, then the sound of a sickening snap emanated from her neck, and she grew silent. Veeza rose to his feet, both hands clutching at the deadly wound Nilki dealt him, blood pouring between his fingers. He was victorious.

Veeza’s Biography - Part 4 - The New Arena

If the dead had the gift of hindsight, many of the arena combatants might have considered themselves lucky to have been torn apart by daedra hordes, as opposed to being torn apart by Veeza’s bare hands. Kvatch’s grand champion in specific was particularly lucky. As while many matches were planned in celebration of Count Goldwine’s birthday, the red team’s champion, Veeza, against the city’s grand champion, Langurius Nerich, was to be the main event. The two had a cordial, even friendly relationship, and Veeza’s challenge to Langurius’ title came as a surprise to all in the city. Tensions were running high, and this match was played up to be the biggest in decades. Fate seemed to have different plans for the two, however. Langurius would find himself a charred corpse on the floor of the bloodworks, indistinguishable from the others surrounding him. Meanwhile, Veeza would be fighting for his life to eventually reach safety within the walls of Kvatch’s chapel, waiting for what seemed to be an inevitable demise.

Veeza

32

Argonian

Male

The Lord

Combat

Brawler

When in the thick of combat, Veeza’s opponents and onlookers alike find it easy to mistake the massive Argonian for a dragon. Standing at six foot five, with dull red scales the color of blood pulled taught over tightly coiled muscles, Veeza is a giant. His tail, thick and muscular like the rest of him, is a dangerous weapon in it’s own right. Atop his head lies a mismatched crown of spikes, varying from half a palm to a full palm in length, about as wide as a sword hilt at the base, tapering into sharp points at the tip. Many of them are chipped, while a few are broken off entirely, leaving bony, jagged stumps in their place. Veeza’s eyes are a pale, sickly yellow, with pupils as lizard-like as the rest of him.

While his scales act as a natural defense, fifteen years spent fighting for his life in the arena has left Veeza with a plethora of scars marring his body, leaving none of him untouched. The worst of them have been caused by a wayward spear that found itself buried in Veeza’s stomach; the scales did not regrow, and a knot of angry pink scar tissue remains just up and to the left of his belly’s navel. Veeza dons a simple set of iron armor sans helmet in the hopes of preventing future scarring of any kind. Rarely will one find the Argonian outside of his armor, though he owns a pair of cloth trousers just in case he desires to swim.

As opposed to his intimidating appearance, Veeza is actually quite the personable fellow. Conversation comes easily enough when he’s able to relax in the moment, though he often comes across as detached and somewhat irritable when stressed. He never fails to speak his mind regardless of what he desires to say, and puts little stock in the opinions of others, especially those seeking to denounce him. Typically, those capable of intelligent, polite conversation as well as feats of valor upon the field of battle can earn his respect, while those that lack the former will also be subject to his ire.

In battle, Veeza stands stoic against the enemy, ready to endure blows meant for others and dish out the pain he’s receiving tenfold upon his opponents. It is in the middle of a good fight that the Argonian feels most at home, and his mind seems clearest. The thrill of fighting for his life against worthy adversaries is simultaneously both thrilling and terrifying, feelings that are magnified as he crushes bones aided by nothing but his own immense strength and a gauntleted fist. He excels at fighting both aggressively and defensively, and has not yet been in a situation forcing him to lose his cool.

Veeza’s Biography - Prologue - Drunken Lizard

Gulum-Ra sighed, looking down at the small Argonian child swathed in blankets, resting on the floor of the small hovel the two shared together in the Waterfront. “Your mother was the fighter, boy. Not me. She was the one that fought for everything we have. Had. Every day she went back into that arena, that damn arena, so she could pull the weight of her useless son and his addict father. That’s us, you piece of sewer filth. Taseel always said that you had the makings of a fighter, like her. Strong bones, she said. Lots of energy. She wanted you to go train with your uncle in Kvatch, so you could be a big strong fighter just like her.” Gulum-Ra paused abruptly, his bitter tone ceasing, as he took a swig of ale. He shook the bottle discontentedly; it was nearly empty. “Well she went into that arena again today, and guess where that got her? Nowhere. She’s dead. So tomorrow morning I’m going to pay the first capable stranger I see as much as it takes to get you to that uncle of yours. He’ll train you to be a fighter-” Swig. “-like your mom. Who knows, maybe you’ll join her. I, however, will take the rest of my funds and purchase enough skooma to fatally overdose-” Swig. Empty. “-ten times over. I’ll never have to see your stupid face again.” Gulum-Ra continued his tirade for a while longer before sinking to the floor a few feet away from his son, drifting into a drunken stupor. Veeza continued to pretend he was asleep.

Veeza’s Biography - Part 1 - Nothing But A Pair Of Fists

Veeza’s uncle was a stern and uncompromising man, either things were done his way or not at all. From the moment Gulum-Ra thrust Veeza into Mush-La’s care, there was no time to do anything but train. Even at age three, the young Argonian was worked to near exhaustion every day with a series of intensive workouts meant to build up his muscular endurance and strength, his uncle shouting encouragement or criticism as necessary every step of the way. From an early age he learned to remain cool in the midst of stressful situations; Mush-La was almost as physically imposing as Veeza would one day become.

Through his younger years and into adolescence, he was trained with a variety of weapons in a variety of different styles of combat, either by his uncle or fighters from the arena aiding Mush-La for the sake of coin or camaraderie. It was at twelve years old, when Veeza nearly caved in the face of another child that was harassing him, that he knew he wanted to focus on hand to hand combat. Mush-La, having spent most of his life fighting in Kvatch’s arena, was one of the few that had mastered the art of warfare without weaponry. From then on, Veeza’s lessons would focus on the fine art of rupturing organs and shattering skulls with nothing but a pair of fists.

Veeza’s Biography - Part 2 - Graduation Day

The years seemed to fly by after that, and things fell into their own steady rhythm. Not yet allowed to fight in the arena, Veeza spent much of his time in the bloodworks, picking up some basic first aid from compliant members at the local mages guild to provide help to wounded combatants whenever he had free time. Mush-La always refused his help, however. It almost seemed fitting that a few weeks after Veeza’s seventeenth birthday he entered the arena alive for the last time, leaving it as a corpse. Though a few members of the red team mourned for the unexpected loss, Veeza was not among them. His uncle was a mean man, and though he respected Mush-La as a teacher, there was no love between them.

Besides, now was not the time to dwell on thoughts of mortality. Veeza had already scheduled his first match.

Veeza’s Biography - Part 3 - The Pit Dragon

The Orc before Veeza was big. Veeza was bigger. The fight did not last as long as one might think, in all honesty. The green brute charged the Argonian in a blind fury. Sloppy. The two grappled together throughout the arena, each holding on to the Orc’s axe with grips like vices. Eventually, Veeza managed to drive his opponent against a pillar, stunning him for a brief moment. In an instant the weapon was out of their hands and skittering across the floor of the arena. He took the opportunity to seize the defenseless Orc by his tusks, ramming the back of the warrior’s head into the stone pillar again, and again, and again. The opposing pit dog ended up dropping to the floor like a bag of stones, the back of his head a bloody paste. Veeza still held onto his tusks, one in each hand.

The trend of brutal, uncontested victories continued throughout most of Veeza’s career. Years later he would still be known as the Pit Dragon in recognition of both his race and his ferocity on the battlefield, even as a new a new blood; a pit dog.

It was during the fight that would promote him to the rank of gladiator did Veeza receive his one and only scar. His opponent was well bred and well trained, a Nord known as Nilki Silver-Head. He never figured out whether that was in recognition of her prowess with her silver tipped spear, or for her striking platinum hair, tied back into a long pony tail. The match was nearly a disgraceful defeat for Veeza, within ten minutes of dodging her attacks and failing to disarm the woman, she had him close to death leaning against a pillar, her spear burrowed deep into his flesh. Hubris, however, can be a powerful tool. Nilki had turned her back to Veeza, shouting to the roaring crowd in triumph, a dagger as silver as both her spear and hair clutched within her left hand. She wanted to finish things up close and personal. Veeza fulfilled her wishes. He snapped the spear off at the head, using the shaft of wood to sweep Nilki’s legs out from under her. One more moment and he was straddling her back, his hands grasping at her hair, pulling upwards as hard as he could with the tip of her spear burrowing deeper into him. She screamed in terror for only a short while, then the sound of a sickening snap emanated from her neck, and she grew silent. Veeza rose to his feet, both hands clutching at the deadly wound Nilki dealt him, blood pouring between his fingers. He was victorious.

Veeza’s Biography - Part 4 - The New Arena

If the dead had the gift of hindsight, many of the arena combatants might have considered themselves lucky to have been torn apart by daedra hordes, as opposed to being torn apart by Veeza’s bare hands. Kvatch’s grand champion in specific was particularly lucky. As while many matches were planned in celebration of Count Goldwine’s birthday, the red team’s champion, Veeza, against the city’s grand champion, Langurius Nerich, was to be the main event. The two had a cordial, even friendly relationship, and Veeza’s challenge to Langurius’ title came as a surprise to all in the city. Tensions were running high, and this match was played up to be the biggest in decades. Fate seemed to have different plans for the two, however. Langurius would find himself a charred corpse on the floor of the bloodworks, indistinguishable from the others surrounding him. Meanwhile, Veeza would be fighting for his life to eventually reach safety within the walls of Kvatch’s chapel, waiting for what seemed to be an inevitable demise.