[hider=The Pit Dragon]
[center][img]https://i.imgur.com/q0fnOOu.png[/img][/center]
[color=CD0000][b][u]Name:[/u][/b][/color]
[indent]Veeza[/indent]
[color=CD0000][b][u]Age:[/u][/b][/color]
[indent]26[/indent]
[color=CD0000][b][u]Race:[/u][/b][/color]
[indent]Argonian[/indent]
[hr]
[color=CD0000][u][b]Appearance:[/b][/u][/color]
[indent]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, and tapering into sharp points. 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 thin-slitted pupils that flare with intensity.

While his scales act as a natural defense, long 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. He is most comfortable when wearing his armor, though he owns a pair of cloth trousers just in case he desires to swim.[/indent]

[color=CD0000][u][b]Personality:[/b][/u][/color]
[indent]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 has a direct, somewhat blunt manner of speaking, but one always knows where they stand with him. All he asks of others, regardless of their level of ability, is to work hard and pull their own weight. He admires anyone capable of feats of valor in battle, whether they use sword or sorcery to get there.

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 faced a foe capable of shaking his confidence.

Veeza is also a reader, eager to expand his understanding of the world around him. Combat temporarily shrouds life in the veil of simplicity, but in reality it is anything but. To be alive is to be part of the world, and Veeza is not keen on following in the footsteps of those that came before him. Mush-La was passionless and oftentimes cruel. His own father was so overwhelmed by reality that he turned to drink to cope. His mother chose to risk her life in battle near daily in order to provide for her family, rather than try any other way, and it cost her everything. Perhaps education and a bit of philosophy might have saved these people from themselves.[/indent] 
[hr]
[color=CD0000][u][b]Skills:[/b][/u][/color]
[indent]Veeza is trained in a variety of martial weaponry, being particularly proficient with blades weapons. However, while he could hold his own against most inexperienced foes regardless of the tool he wields, his particular focus is on unarmed combat. Using his fists and tail to deliver crushing blows and unexpected maneuvers in a fighting style uniquely his own, or at the very least uniquely Argonian. He also has competent first aid capabilities, both with mundane tools and via the use of alchemy. He knows how to search for and prepare ingredients that could be used for restorative purposes.[/indent]

[color=CD0000][u][b]Magic:[/b][/u][/color]
[indent]Veeza is skilled enough to call upon restorative magic to heal the wounds of himself or others.[/indent]
[hr]
[color=CD0000][u][b]Personal Items:[/b][/u][/color]
[list][*]A pair of trousers[/list]

[color=CD0000][u][b]The Lock Box:[/b][/u][/color]
[list][*] His iron armor, the gauntlets are reinforced with steel and have studs made of dwarven metal inlaid along the knuckles
[*] Kvatch arena raiment 
[*] A steel shortsword
[*] A leather travel pack
[*] A mortar and pestle
[*] A suturing kit
[*] 500 septims, the earnings from his last victory[/list]

[color=CD0000][u][b]Stored Items:[/b][/u][/color]
[indent]Nothing of note, perhaps some septims and additional equipment at his home in Kvatch.[/indent]
[hr]
[color=CD0000][b][u]Background:[/u][/b][/color]
[hider=The Pit Dragon]
[color=CD0000][u][b]Drunken Lizard[/b][/u][/color]

[indent]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 love you, you stupid kid. But I’ll never be the father you need. Your uncle’s a bastard, but he’ll make something out of you.” 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.[/indent] 

[color=CD0000][u][b]Nothing But A Pair Of Fists[/b][/u][/color]

[indent]Veeza’s uncle was a stern and uncompromising man; 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.[/indent]

[color=CD0000][u][b]Graduation Day[/b][/u][/color]

[indent]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, his uncle entered the arena alive for the last time, leaving it as a corpse. Though a few members of Kvatch’s arena felt sorrow 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. 

In his own way, in his own time, he would come to mourn Mush-La.

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

[color=CD0000][u][b]The Pit Dragon[/b][/u][/color]

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 dusty stone. 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 blood; a pit dog. 

It was during the fight that would promote him to the rank of gladiator did Veeza receive his most grievous 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 ponytail. 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.[/indent]

[color=CD0000][u][b]She In The Moonlight[/b][/u][/color]

[indent]Veeza made his prayers at night. The quiet, empty pews and the columns lining the hall of worship stood in stark contrast to the chaos that daylight hours brought. Here, things were calm. Simple. The first time he saw her, she was practicing her spellcraft beneath a willow tree clinging to the edge of the pond beside the chapel. The light of the moon filtered through the vines and cast her blue skin in an ethereal light. She was a Dunmer from Cheydinhal, recently transferred to Kvatch’s mages guild, and the most beautiful person Veeza had ever seen. 

After the third night of curious, appreciative glances, he finally got the courage to approach her. She was as pleasant to converse with as she was to look upon. Her name was Ildrani, and though there was much history between their people, both of them were citizens of the empire first, having been born in Cyrodiil. The conflicts of Morrowind and Black Marsh were irrelevant to the burgeoning connection they had begun to nurture.[/indent]

[color=CD0000][u][b]The New Arena[/b][/u][/color]

[indent]Veeza was part of the grand celebration thrown at the Imperial City. Before the Gray Prince’s ill-fated duel, many more exhibitions were held, including matches involving visiting gladiators from Kvatch. He had won his own match with relative ease, retiring from the festivities early to treat himself to some food and drink at a local tavern. The Gray Prince against a Companion from Skyrim? It wouldn’t be a real fight. He supposed there was nothing wrong with a fluffy bit of nationalism, but it held no interest for him. 

Far earlier than expected, the tavern began to fill up with a crowd of very angry, riled citizens. There was something about a brick, blabbering about someone trying to kill the Gray Prince, and a general din of pointless and disquieting negativity that soon erupted into a full on brawl. Veeza kept to himself in the corner of the tavern for as long as he could. He really did.

But on principle, if someone snaps their jaws at the Pit Dragon, the Pit Dragon bites back. 

So he broke more than a few noses.[/indent]
[/hider]


[color=CD0000][b][u]Ambition:[/u][/b][/color] 
[indent]Currently, to get back home to Kvatch and Ildrani.[/indent]
[/hider]