Creative life is starting back up very soon, and I can finally show off some of the Verdance things I’ve been building up a little bit at a time :3
So here’s what she’s been up to right before CL2!
Tw for abuse, injury, and blood, art is under the fic.
When Verdance woke up from creative life, she saw her walls and her bed and her house. She saw Foli, disappearing, leaving her again. And she heard her boss's voice.
You were never much of a gladiator-
She stumbled up, her head swimming. She could see black spots dancing behind her eyes, the brunt force of weeks worth of taxing activity crashing down on her body.
She snatched a wad of bills from her dresser, and a long knife, fumbling both into her pockets. With two hands she shoved open the window.
She carefully eased herself outside. Second floor. No footholds.
Bastards. Who designed a second floor with no way to sneak out?
The footsteps were outside.
“Will this be all?” The elderly man behind the counter asked, his sagging cheeks pulled into a smile.
“Yep.” Verdance said, forcing her grin to stay small. Her face was far too recognizable. Her new ombre hair was cut in choppy layers around her ears, shaggy bangs covering the worst of her scarring. She fingered at her singular rat tail braid, blinking through grey colored contact lenses. She accepted her bag, a canvas satchel of supplies that swung easily over her shoulder. She handed him a wad of bills. They were dotted with sweat from the time in her pocket, rattling against her coins and crackers.
“It's cold tonight.” The shopkeeper said, glancing outside at the piling snow. “Do you have a place to stay?”
“Stay safe lass.” The man said. “It's dangerous for a young lady in the city.”
“Thanks, I will.” Verance replied. She risked another smile, pulling up the hood of her cloak. She walked out of the shop, narrowing her eyes against the thick snow. The capitol city always looked its best in winter, with all the brick architecture dusted in white. By tomorrow the snow would be a dirty grey, muddled by thousands of hooves and shoes, but for now it was perfect.
Verdance was in the poorer part of town, but she still saw the posters. Peeling off every wall were pictures of her, in her prime, brown hair cascading down her back like a wave, white streaks running through it like lighting strikes. Her one good eye was a brilliant blue, shining with hunger, the wish for more. Her cloak, purposely torn and draped gently over her powerful, broad shoulders.
They looked like posters for a lost dog, a large font underneath her face begging the people who ‘took her’ to return her to her boss's care. Sponsors were losing money. Her boss was ‘worried sick’.
Verdance had done a decent job covering up her appearance. She fought the urge to brush her bangs back out of her eyes, her scar was by far her most recognizable feature.
Damn you Foli. Verdance though, blowing upward at her bangs. You and your sword.
She didn't really mean it, she never did. But the Foli in her head was easy to yell at, much easier than yelling at her boss, or the watchers, or the entire predatory system she was raised in.
Verdance fiddled with the end of her braid, her hand slowly shifting into the other. Her fingers fit together oddly, the branding in her palm pressing against her clean hand. The number 87.
And that's as high as it goes Verdance reminded herself with a squeeze. That game was the last time I will ever kill.
Of course that meant never going home, which sucked. On the other hand, she never had to see her boss again, and she wasn't too torn up over that.
Johnathan Richter. Verdance corrected. He's not my boss anymore. And his name is Jonathan. A mortal name for a mortal man.
She ducked into an alley, making sure she wasn't being followed. The smell of fresh soup wafted from the building on her left side. She could hear people inside, and through the open window she could see the kitchen lights and servers weaving in and out.
Verdance slumped against the brick wall, hitting the snow, her bag dropping to her side.
She unlaced her right boot, sliding off her sock with it. She rolled her pants up to the knees, showing off a haphazard bandage job leading from the base of her ankle to her mid calf. Spotty red showed through the medical wrapping like cherry stains.
Verdance reached out with both hands, dipping into a low stretch. She pulled her ankle back, trailing her fingers gingerly over her wound. A pricking ache went through her heel as she made contact.
When she jumped from the second floor, her ankle had exploded in pain. It felt like an ice pick was being driven through her foot. Whimpering, Verdance shuffled into the bushes surrounding her house, praying it wasn't broken.
It hadn’t been broken, but it was still painful, and she had landed on a shattered beer bottle, which got stuck in every angle of her right leg.
Verdance gritted her teeth, her tongue pressing itself against the roof of her mouth. She unwrapped her convenience store bag, pulling out a bottle of peroxide and a fresh roll of bandages. She had also bought a small sandwich and a bottle of water, which she set to the side.
Verdance tried not to care about the knowledge her funds were dwindling. She had taken cash when she ran from Johnathans house, but 2000 dollars only got you so far, and there was no way Verdance could get a job with such a recognizable face.
Verdance felt tears nipping at the corners of her eyes. She scrubbed furiously at them, the dirt on her hands smearing across her face. Her cheeks burned with cold, and her nose ran, snot freezing against her upper lip.
What the hell did you think you were doing?
It was her bos- Jonathan's voice, ringing in her ear. He had demanded that question be answered, his black lip stain cracking.
“I told you to stay downstairs, nobody is supposed to see you like this!”
“This is my home.” Verdance protested despite herself. “I can go upstairs in my own home.”
Johnathan swore at her, the back of his hand connecting sharply with Verdance's cheek.
“Don’t talk back to me!” He snarled, his hand clenching in and out of a fist. Verdance could taste blood in her mouth, staining her sharp white teeth. A red welt was blooming on her cheek, spreading out like a rose pried open and apart by someone's fingers.
She was half aware of her knees hitting the floor.
“When important people are here, you stay downstairs!” Johnathan yelled. “Your shoulder still isn't healed, and the chances of them betting on you knowing the damage is near zero!”
He yanked her up by the wrist, using his other hand to dig into her cheeks.
Verdance scrambled against the floor, her tail lashing frantically behind her. She could feel long nails drawing blood, black nail polish chipping off and flaking into her mouth.
She wanted to kill him. She could do it. She would do it.
Verdance could rip her hands from his, and pull her face away. She could have her own nails at his neck, and drive her fists into his face until it was so broken nobody would be able to recognize him. She could hold him up, not in the arena, but in the street, showing exactly what nobility looked like when you peeled away all those pretty layers.
Please kick me in the stomach. Verdance whispered to whatever sick god allowed this. If you kick me in the stomach I’ll throw up.
She got her wish, and Johnathan drove his knee into her gut with a vicious thrust. She let out a grunting whimper, curling in on herself. A still tear dripped from her good eye.
She could stand, could drive her own kick into Jonathan's ribs. She squeezed her hands together, feeling the number branded into her palm.
Killing a nobleman or a citizen was much different than killing an arena fighter. Some were prisoners, some bought by the upper class, some simply tricked into contracts. Some wanted to fight.
And their lives meant nothing.
She heard a quiet sigh above her, like a disappointed father. Like she had failed a test, or teased a sibling.
She struggled upright, spitting a line of pinkish phlegm as she stood. Jonathan let out a quiet tsk, glancing at the floor. Another tear dripped down her cheek, and Jonathan reached out, wiping it away with one spindly hand. Blood from his nails smeared across her bruising cheek, and he wiped his fingers off on the front of her shirt, before licking them clean.
“Gladators don't cry.” Jonathan said, staring at her with a cool, impassive look.
Verdance nodded, tears still dripping down her face.
Verdance felt long, bony limbs pull her into a hug, Jonathan's chin settling in her matted hair. His hands curled around her back, like a smothering weed.
“Im only trying to help you.” Jonathan murmured, his voice crisp. “The world is cruel, and people like you need to know where you belong.”
No. No, I don't understand you.” Verdance thought, squeezing her eyes tight. I don’t know how someone claiming to care about me could do this.
She pressed her cheek against Jonathan's shoulder. Her nerves screamed in protest, pain spiking through her jaw at the contact. Through slitted eyes she could see the clean walls of the house that had been bought and paid for with her fights. The house she wouldn't even have the right to own unless Johnathans name was on the papers.
His words stung more because he was right. Without her fights and her smile, she was worth nothing. Less than nothing. The little girl interrupting Jonathan's business meeting, with her sullen face and her wounded shoulder was no gladiator. She wouldn't bet on that either.
She thought of the hot showers, and the fresh meals, and her face, respected, loved, valued. The little girls who never made it past 8 years old. How lucky she was.
Verdance could kill her boss.
Verdance snapped back to reality, surprised to find her head in between her knees. Her face was speckled with dirt and sticky with tears and snot, heat pouring into her cheeks like a rising fever. She drew herself up, those cursed bangs flopping over both her bad and good eye.
Through the hair she could see a man, mid thirties at most, a rolled cigarette pinched between two fingers. He was a stout and boxy figure, and his brownish hair seemed to be falling out. He was giving her a sympathetic but firm look, drawing the cigarette up to his lips and inhaling a puff.
“You're not allowed to loiter out here.” His voice was deep, the effects of smoking clear in his rasp.
Verdance blinked up at him, rubbing her eyes.
”Sorry.” Verdance replied in a squeaky voice. She started to shift back up, and her ankle hit against the brick ground. She gasped, her breath coming faster.
The man finished his cigarette, dropping it to the floor and smothering the flame with his boot.
He stared at her, clicking his tongue. He rubbed the back of his neck, looking unsure.
“You're gonna freeze out here, winter's a bitch.” He paused. “They leave the restaurant heat on overnight, if you head around to the smokestack you can get a lot warmer. Plus nobody goes back there, so you won't be in the way. My coworkers aren’t so nice.”
”The homeless shelter is about two miles out.” The man said, giving her another once over. “And the rehab.”
Verdance stared at the space he had been, her eyes stinging against the winter air. Sharp aches were going through her leg, even worse through her stomach. She hadn’t eaten since this morning. She unwrapped her sandwich, wolfing it down in quick bites. Twisting off the cap with shaking hands, Verdance dripped water into her dry mouth, careful to save some for later.
Is this really better? Verdance asked herself, her teeth gritted. I'm cold, starving, and look like I'm on too many drugs to function.
This felt like the worst of the creative life nights. When she couldn’t make it back to her team before dark, and she had to pitch a tent somewhere in the middle of the woods.
Longing hit her like a brick, forcing out a sob. Verdance missed Cae, Star and Maple so much it hurt. Were they okay now? She knew most of the team outlived her. Maybe one of them even won.
She hoped not. Verdance doubted the watchers would be kind to their winner.
But she prayed the watchers sent them home, wherever that was. Foli too, no matter what happened in the past. Maybe she had finally learned her lesson about arenas.
“Please.” Verdance begged into empty air, her tears dripping down and freezing to her face. “Please little allay, who loved my show, and who loved me despite it, know I forgive you.”
Bitterness rose up in her chest like bile, and she snarled, “And stay far far away from arenas.”
That's who Verdance's promise was for. Not for honor, or for kindness. Verdance swore not to kill, so nobody saw it again and called it ‘good’.
The tears kept coming, and she let them come.
Oh Verdance. Foli murmured. You were never much of a gladiator
If you want to make any fanart, please do, and tag me so I can see! Here’s her official reference for CL2!
areudirty
stormborns
kaledo-art
turnnoffyourmind
dededos
