Hair: Unkempt Mohawk; black.
Eyes: Dark brown
Weapons Choice: Dual-wielded warhammers.
It started underground.
Not so deep, however, that she would be confused for the child of a whore, no. She was better than that. Much better. Not royalty, but enough to distill a sense of the hierarchy: Her father was a miner. She would venture down into the mines every now and again to perch on a rafter and watch as a child, but she never herself mined.
One day, somebody died. It wasn’t a grandiose happenstance, nor was it paid much attention. Down there, death was more common than illness. More common than the circumstantial death was murder. Those around the deceased sneered and kicked the body aside to continue working.
A few weeks later, another Artican died.
This trend continued as it had been, with the enforcement caring little to discern pattern or motive. Here, people died. Frequently. If they weren’t killed because one of the Royal Three Families wanted them dead, they were caught in the crossfire.
After about a year or so of deaths spattered betwixt the common occurrences, a Crimelord died. The Three took time out of their fighting backstage and noticed. It was messy and hastily done in his office. A chunk of his head had stuck to the ceiling, the rest splattered across the back wall. Blood droplets led out and into the main area, but eventually dried. No note, no real motive beyond the obvious, no nothing. Yet, One of the Three knew what happened. They sat for weeks, lulling it over amongst themselves on the best route to take. Appearances are everything.
The Three had a meeting with a girl. A woman, really. She stood before them, her hammers sheathed, and listened. She didn’t particularly care as to what was being said, no; she cared more for the unsaid behaviours. The tumultuous relationship between the Three fascinated her for so long, and now that she stood before Them, she found herself…bored. They accused her of murder, of betrayal, and of not obeying her place. The condemned her to death. Before anything further could happen, markings appeared on her arm. Her mind flashed a memory of another with similar markings who had disappeared, and was needed to be replaced. Perplexed and amused, she walked out of the cacophony in the Great Hall.
Childhood doll in hand, she left the land of her people and ventured to find something more interesting than a crimelord-controlled hierarchy of existence. She was curious about these markings; with her hammers, nothing would stop her from acquiring the knowledge she desired.