| rdfs:comment | - -Appearance: Andy’s skin is the deep olive commonly seen in the Sennex, his eyes are deep brown, his hair, eyebrows and eyelashes thick and dark. His face is somewhat over-long and lupine, but might have still been attractive, if it weren’t for the scar. Some scars make a man look weathered and full of character. Andy’s scar is not one of these. It starts over the bridge of his nose, where it cuts a notch, and rakes across his left cheek before driving down through the left of his mouth. Without any medical attention his lips healed twisted, leaving his mouth in a permanent sneer. Other old scars criss-cross his face and the rest of him, but this is the largest and worst. Like other slave fighters Ysandr was chosen for his size as a young boy. To the disappointment of his trainers he never
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| abstract | - -Appearance: Andy’s skin is the deep olive commonly seen in the Sennex, his eyes are deep brown, his hair, eyebrows and eyelashes thick and dark. His face is somewhat over-long and lupine, but might have still been attractive, if it weren’t for the scar. Some scars make a man look weathered and full of character. Andy’s scar is not one of these. It starts over the bridge of his nose, where it cuts a notch, and rakes across his left cheek before driving down through the left of his mouth. Without any medical attention his lips healed twisted, leaving his mouth in a permanent sneer. Other old scars criss-cross his face and the rest of him, but this is the largest and worst. Like other slave fighters Ysandr was chosen for his size as a young boy. To the disappointment of his trainers he never seem to build much weight, though, remaining lean and hard but lighter than other fighters of his height. Compared to a man in the street he is still an imposing figure. His arms are long to his body, which means very long indeed- giving him an almost astonishing reach with a blade. Though his limbs can seem gangly when he stands still, in motion he is swift and graceful. -Personality: Whether it truly is loyalty or only forced submissiveness is debatable, but the thing easiest to see when speaking with Andy is his devotion to his masters. Ysandr is a fifth generation slave, and has been shaped by the life he has led. He is completely selfless. Given a task he will complete it quickly and without complaint. He is not stupid, as anyone who has seen him fight will attest, but neither is he accustomed to making his own choices in life. If someone takes a position of authority with him he will likely obey, whether or not he is obliged to. He harbours no lusts or ambitions, and is slow to anger and envy. The closest he comes to hoping for anything is a vague dream of living somewhere with a garden. He loves plants and gardens, and has the green thumb to match. At heart he does not love killing nor glory in it - if he seems vicious in the field, it is more instinct than anything else. He is nothing if not deadly. Possibly he would give up violence if given the chance- who can say? A life in the pits is not one littered with opportunities for self improvement. -Blood Rage: Remember I said Ysandr is slow to anger? Well, he is. He also nearly impossible to stop when he is angered. In battles that raise his adrenaline or situations when he is endangered Andy is prone to Pit Malady, also called Blood Rage. In this state he might attack anyone, friend or foe, and will barely feel wounds. His attacks may be backed by more power, but they also tend to become wilder and less finessed- his usual implacable logic goes out the window. Ysandr was not born this way. He first showed signs after an exhibition match- he was fighting a well loved champion, a valuable slave. He was under strict orders not to seriously injure or kill the other fighter. Naturally it was not to be. Usually a careful and controlled swordsman, Ysandr misjudged a thrust when his opponent stepped in to press his own attack and the other fighter was skewered through the belly. The man died three days later of sepsis, Ysandr himself was lashed half to death. His previously implacable confidence fled. He did not fear opponents, he feared the end of the match and the punishment that came with it. A few fights later he would not leave the ring, becoming crazy with fear. Like a cornered animal he lashed out at the handlers, killing two before he was stunned. He was whipped for it. It wasn’t long before his rages became a regular occurrence, and then an inextricable part of him. The more he was punished for them the worse they became. These days he will likely snap in one of three battles, and might take hours to become calm again. Background: It is hard to overstate how standard a slave childhood Andy had. Born to a maid in the house of a minor Taneel noble, he spent his early years at the usual sisyphean scrubbing of floors and turning of gardens. Cakes were stolen from the kitchens and lashings resulted. He raised a puppy from the kennels. A woman who might have been his grandmother died, and his mother wept. He grew bigger, big enough to sell on, and that was that- there is no place for a growing slave boy in a noble house. When he was eight he was sold to a farm for picking fruit, and after that it was the usual moving life of a young male slave- being passed along whenever the work was done. By the time he was twelve he had been a labourer, stable-hand, dish-pig. Mercifully never a bed slave, though the possibility existed. He grew suddenly tall and the restaurant he washed for folded. He found himself in shackles at the block, weeping, in the same week that a dozen boys were killed in a wash of blood at the Taneelport pits. He was bought as a replacement. Ysandr’s first match was a rat bait. Barely trained and armed with a rusty short-sword, he and half-dozen others about the same size were thrust into a ring in front of a cheering crowd, confused and afraid. It might have been the end of him- it was for all the others. Ptholdir the Fierce marched in then, resplendant in panther furs and crowned helm- the greatest champion of the Katlan ring in decades. The first two boys fell in seconds. The purpose of rat baiting is to see how fast the dog can kill the rats. Later Andy would not be able to recall how he survived that day- after ten minutes the others had been cut down in flight, some not even raising their shabby blades to their own defense. The man turned cold eyes on him, last, methodically sluicing the ichor of his most recent kill from his blade. For seconds then minutes the boy was driven backwards around the ring. Running was futile, he knew, he would be hopelessly outpaced. And none could stand against Ptholdir with a blade. Yet the time passed, and still he did not die. He dodged and wove. The blade in his hand had a will of it’s own, driving up under Ptholdir’s hacking blows, flicking away the the thrusts. By the end he’d lasted almost fifteen minutes on his own. The slash that caught him across the face came close to tearing off his nose in a single blow, and it was almost miraculous that it didn’t take one of his eyes. Screaming, crawling away through bloody sand is most of what he remembers from that day. Ptholdir’s shadow over the sun. Somewhere, the damp shapes of the other fallen, and the most pain anyone could ever feel. Instead of cheers the peal of far-away bells. The champion posed the old question to the crowd, and Ysandr was spared. The rest is everything you would expect.
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