Sean Wicke
Fortuna Survivor
Sean stiffened as his last true competition volunteered him for another bout, her paw already raised to draw attention to them. He considered tossing her down from their perch and letting her fight for herself, but... He hesistated, considering, before he slowly slipped down, pacing toward the ring. Most of the crowd had no idea who he was, jeering and taunting the well-dressed newcomer. He caught a few in the crowd, though, who spotted him and fell eerily silent. Boxing might not be his preferred form of combat, but he was lethal enough in his own field that those in the know understood that he would not be an easy foe to fight. As he paced to the cage door, He loosened his tie, pulling it free of his collar, then shrugged out of his coat and waistcoat. As he reached the cage door, he handed these off to the referee, then stripped his shirt away before entering the ring, the lights beating down through the bars upon his bared back and chest.
The white ink, tattooed into his fur in deposits beneath the skin that leeched upward into the individual hairs, covered his back, shoulders, arms, and chests, intermingling with dozens of scars and other trophies of combat. Symbols of the criminal underworld, key among them a spiraling helix for which each line denoted a contract kill completed, took up the majority of his back, while on his shoulder the skull and anchor of the Imperial Marines rested above a set of what seemed to be initials running down his upper arm in a column in a column: S.S.S., Sgt S.S., S5, S.B., S.D., L.S. On the opposite side, individual tattoos, each one indicating degrees of trust among various syndicates, were inked into his fur. Finally, on his chest was a running tally: thirty-four marks in a box on the right-paw side.
He paced in the cage, stretching his shoulders as he limbered himself up for the match. His glare crossed the dimly-lit, faceless audience, equal parts challenge and warning to stay away.
~~~
Falun escorted Bloodtooth in the direction of the ringside doctor and the patchwork infirmary set aside as their office. "Ya go' gusto, I'll give ya 'at," he allowed, "bu' 'is place is a waste fer yer talen's. Ya know th' life expectancy o' a boxer? Thirty-five if yer lucky, an' mos' a those ge' pummeled outta th' ring b'fore 'ey hit thirty. All 'em blows work a number on yer 'ead, no' t' mention wha' ya 'ave t' do ta numb th' pain, drinkin' ih' away an' stronger stuff yet." He tapped his forefinger to the side of his own head, indicating his experience in this matter. "Th' only way t' survive is t' be the one dealin' th' blows, nah takin' 'em - an' if ya wanna do 'at, th' ring is the wrong place fer ya. Luckily, I know 'xactly where 'at's the rules o' th' game."
He let the matter drop as they walked into the infirmary, Falun barking to the doctor, "'Ey doc! 'Ope ya go' summat t' numb m' friend 'ere's mouth. 'E's gonna need a li'l dentistry."
The white ink, tattooed into his fur in deposits beneath the skin that leeched upward into the individual hairs, covered his back, shoulders, arms, and chests, intermingling with dozens of scars and other trophies of combat. Symbols of the criminal underworld, key among them a spiraling helix for which each line denoted a contract kill completed, took up the majority of his back, while on his shoulder the skull and anchor of the Imperial Marines rested above a set of what seemed to be initials running down his upper arm in a column in a column: S.S.S., Sgt S.S., S5, S.B., S.D., L.S. On the opposite side, individual tattoos, each one indicating degrees of trust among various syndicates, were inked into his fur. Finally, on his chest was a running tally: thirty-four marks in a box on the right-paw side.
He paced in the cage, stretching his shoulders as he limbered himself up for the match. His glare crossed the dimly-lit, faceless audience, equal parts challenge and warning to stay away.
~~~
Falun escorted Bloodtooth in the direction of the ringside doctor and the patchwork infirmary set aside as their office. "Ya go' gusto, I'll give ya 'at," he allowed, "bu' 'is place is a waste fer yer talen's. Ya know th' life expectancy o' a boxer? Thirty-five if yer lucky, an' mos' a those ge' pummeled outta th' ring b'fore 'ey hit thirty. All 'em blows work a number on yer 'ead, no' t' mention wha' ya 'ave t' do ta numb th' pain, drinkin' ih' away an' stronger stuff yet." He tapped his forefinger to the side of his own head, indicating his experience in this matter. "Th' only way t' survive is t' be the one dealin' th' blows, nah takin' 'em - an' if ya wanna do 'at, th' ring is the wrong place fer ya. Luckily, I know 'xactly where 'at's the rules o' th' game."
He let the matter drop as they walked into the infirmary, Falun barking to the doctor, "'Ey doc! 'Ope ya go' summat t' numb m' friend 'ere's mouth. 'E's gonna need a li'l dentistry."
