|Deadeirdra Evania had always
understood the power that came with notoriety. To be known and feared, to
be recognized as a threat, made the time pass more quickly and the taste
of power grow ever stronger when it passed over ones lips.
Deadeirdra was no different than any of the others. At least, not until he betrayed her. He had been the son of a very important family... and she would have gained a great deal from their marriage... but she refused to give up her freedom, and his assassination attempt only sealed her resolve. The battle left him wounded, but he chose to run... he should have waited to make certain she was dead.
He had left her for dead, but by the force of her will, she remained alive. The damage had been too severe to heal completely, and Deadeirdra lost the use of her voice. She left her underground home and entered the nearby surface city of Zanterr. It was here that she found her niche... the drow were feared in the surface world... and her battle skills made her all the more dangerous... and all the more popular in the one place she felt at home...
The gladiatorial arena.
Her advocate, a weasely little human who knew how to play the odds, made her into a sensation - renaming her Arrykja and playing on the silent and deadly angle to sell seats, make bets and odds skyrocket, and generally make the name "Arrykja" interchangeable with any arena title in the area.
She grew to understand the strength of the power these people and their adoration gave to her... the money that could be earned when the fight went the right way... the glory that came from being the most popular of the local gladiators.
She thrived on the notoriety, the only thing that overshadowed the satisfaction that came with the roar of the crowd was the satisfaction that came from the kill itself.
She should have trusted her instincts that night, when she was walking back to her home from the tavern. Crying women had never been of any concern to her... hell, she'd caused most of them to weep for their husbands or brothers or sons... But for some reason, this one caught her attention. This crying woman needed her help... or so she thought.
The glowing red eyes that met hers told her, in a split second, she'd been mistaken. But that was the last thing she would remember for a very long time.
When the elf freed her from the medusa's imprisonment, all she really wanted to do was leave the beast's lair and return to her life. He argued with her, and the others he woke, telling them that they had to help him save his companions. To Arrykja, the only thing that made her want to stay was the treasure the elf spoke of.
Somehow, even after the death of the creature, she remained in the company of the others who had been freed by the elf. They seemed interested in the old city that lay beneath the current structures... all she wanted was to return to the arena...
But much had changed in Zanterr over the sixteen hundred years she had been locked in stone, and the city was not the same as she remembered. Her disappearance had ruined the career she had established, but the promise of treasure and the resharpening of her skills that the maze beneath the city could provide.
Every new gold piece, every new gem, vanished into her image... she bought and trained with new weapons, paid the wizards to create the intricate web of tattoos that was beginning to cover her body... she recreated the image of the warrior who had disappeared so long ago... and the people of Zanterr began to love her again...
Of course, the companions she had acquired in the bowels of the medusa's lair, continued their exploration of the underground ruins, and with the disappearance of the only other underworlder shortly after their return, she could not leave them to wander into the slaughter that would likely await them.
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