Raza
Raza’s always a little surprised when combat-type things go her way. She ain’t a fighter in the typical sense, but when you grow up in Torchline, you just kinda… learn shit. You survive. Maybe thrive. Or you don’t. In this case, it seems that bangin’ that damn gong on a regular basis has done the barkeep some good. Maybe she’ll remember to thank the fightin’ drunks later… but probably not.
A fierce grin breaks through the physical pain, success turnin’ adrenaline into an unexpected analgesic. Her long, wiry frame seems to move a little easier, clearing the rest of the brush with more energy ‘n she had before (though it’s no match for Aurelia’s dexterity, make no mistake). “I’m so sick’a these orange CUNTS” Raza growls, a desperate longing for the butt and tines of her trident so she could do some real damage surging white-hot through her.
Alas, it’s been left in her tent, lest she accidentally piss on it.
Scrambling for a thick, nearby branch, Raza sees the Fireheart go down and lunges to hit it - bunting style - away from her comrade.
reppin' a district of obvious misfits
