Lace Briarfeld stood anxiously awaiting the raising of the gates on the opposite end of the colosseum. Much like Rhargn, she had only been informed of the fight's stakes as she was sent into her holding cell and she worried at the torn edge of a nail as she listened to the announcer declare the name of her opponent.
Rhargn the Barbaric. By all accounts, the announcer was a notorious over-exaggerator who rarely had a chance to see the opponents before hand anyway, and thus Lace's opponent could be anything ranging from a giant to a scrawny elf seeking to prove himself a real man. She had seen fights before, had seen fighters laughed at, pegged with vegetables, when a description had proved false, their expectations ruined.
She twisted her grip around the hilt of the shortsword a friend had given her before the fight. The crowd was roaring just beyond the gate, their chants ripping around her ears and making her heart rush unsteadily. They had approved of him, had decided that he at least mostly fit the description. She rolled her neck, transferred the sword to her free hand and cracked her knuckles with a low grunt. She had come here to fight...not to have herself declared a coward in the face of those who might expect a woman to fail.
The announcer's voice rose over the roar as the shouting began to die again, anticipation driving the crowd to discover who Rhargn's opponent would be.
"Facing the barbarian we have a towering portrait of rippling muscle, an individual who would sooner spit a man on a stick than give him a second glance: Leather, Breaker of Men!"
The gate rushed open and Lace grit her teeth, readjusting her grip on the sword, and stepped out into the flickering torch light that illuminated the circular pit of the arena. The crowd stilled a moment as the woman gazed up at them and her rough face tensed into a scowl. But Lace was an intimidating structure of a woman; Nearly seven foot tall, she was broad-shouldered and thick around the waist with large hands looked as if they could squeeze air from a man's throat with little effort. Calling her Leather had not been some sort of wishful thinking on her part: She was known around her nook of Nexus by the name, as Lace seemed too dainty and feminine for the woman that often bullied men into place. She had dressed appropriately for the situation: Her body sheathed in brown leather pants and jerkin, stained and old.
The crowd erupted again, cheering their approval of the match. The announcer, a robust man with a seat over the arena's centered entrance, gestured and shouted,
"To the death!"
Lace hunched her shoulders, fixing black eyes on her opponent, and began to size him with the efficient eyes of a woman who had seen many brawls in her time, if not arena battles.
ooc: Maybe not written in the traditional "mod" style, but hopefully satisfactory
