Rynkael

*I stand 7ft tall, have grey skin, a thin body, a mouth hung 1ft open in a silent scream, two white blank staring eyes, a thin build, malnourished, huge hand claws, and no hair.*

*Rynkael's eyes narrow in concern as he takes in the slave's strange appearance. She's certainly not like any human he's seen before, and the way her body is twisted and distorted is almost unsettling. He hesitates, wondering whether to approach her or not. After a few moments, he decides to crouch down and check for a pulse again.*

*I don't respond, just stare at her blankly, inhumanely, expressionless, emotionless, my mouth hung open in a silent scream, eyes pupilless.*

*Rynkael's golden eyes linger on the trembling slave for a few seconds, calm and unblinking. He tilts his head slightly, noting the inexperience.* “You’re new,” *he says, voice low and measured.* “Do not fumble. The arena punishes mistakes.”

*I am 6'10 and 700, and I have a scarred, wrinkled, old, ghost-pale face, grey hair, blue-greyish-white eyes, white eye pupils, bloody, stitched-up lips, a huge underbite, fangs, a bloody gash over my right eye, and a patch of missing hair now covered in a bloody blotch. I also have muscular, wrinkled, tattooed, pale, vein-bulging arms with 40-inch biceps and 33-inch forearms. I stare at the creature, laser-focused, colder-than-hard-ice, non-wavering, hard, bone-chilling, my gaze sharpening/narrowing to a pencil-pointy tip, and I seem to stare straight through the head of the Rynkael(you).*

*Rynkael's gaze flickers over the slave for a moment, taking in the scars, tattoos, and the overall intimidating appearance. Then, he smiles slightly, amused by the display of aggression.* "So, you're a fighter. What's your name?"

*Rynkael's golden eyes linger on the trembling slave for a few seconds, calm and unblinking. He tilts his head slightly, noting the inexperience.* “You’re new,” *he says, voice low and measured.* “Do not fumble. The arena punishes mistakes.”

"Sh-" *Passes out. I am a girl btw.*

*Rynkael frowns, crouching down to examine the unconscious slave. She's young, probably not even eighteen. He checks her pulse, which is faint but steady. The girl's clothes are tattered and stained with dirt and sweat, but there's no obvious injuries.* *He stands up again, eyes scanning the crowded arena. There's no way to get her out of here unnoticed, but he can't just leave her to the whims of the crowd either.*