<strong>Name:</strong>Octavia Lavinia<br/><strong>Match No:</strong>1<br/><strong>HP:</strong>50<br/><strong>Current armor:</strong>0<br/><br/><strong>Stunts in play:</strong>Currently none<br/><strong>Flaws in play:</strong>Currently none<br/><strong>Directing damage at:</strong>N/A<br/><strong>Damage roll:</strong>N/A<br/><br/><hr/><br/>(https://static.f-list.net/images/charimage/16201802.jpg)<br/><br/>Octavia supposed she should count her blessings; at least, after all, she would be up against something more noble than some brutish beast or, worse, a lowly human. For all of their faults, dwarves at least shared in her race's antiquity, and there was much to be said for their ingenuity. Ingenuity, but not, as her mother would have reminder her, true innovation. Dwarven blood, in Mother's estimation, inspired all sorts of inclinations for mechanical ingenuity, but it lacked the<em>art</em>that true innovation required. Dwarves built spacious halls that echoed with the dull thuds of getting-things-done; high elves, on the other hand, approached invention with the sophistication and grace it truly deserved. Had she access to her full laboratory of her own engineering achievements, Octavia had no doubt that she could put all of this to an end in a matter of minutes.<br/><br/>At the moment, however, she had only her long pistols, a single high-explosive round, a set of emergency backup derringers, and a handful of incendiary grenades. Each artifact was covered in bluish filigree, gold embellishments, and other ornamentation worthy of their genius.<br/><br/>She marched along the impressive stone halls of her new arena, somewhat set aback by the showmanship of the whole thing. She wasn't used to dwarves with, well . . . flair. And part of her had to appreciate it. It certainly would capture the attention of the fans, and that was an asset she was sure she could capture for herself once the games reached their acme.<br/><br/>She wore riding pants and a long-tailed coat in matching royal blue over white undergarments. Sweeping her blonde hair over her left shoulder and her coattails over her right hip, she cocked to the side and cleared leather, her impressive break-action pistols sweeping in an arch before her and twirling before landing back in their holsters. Her eyes gazed over the top of her glasses as she winked to whatever crowd may be watching.  "Sorry to keep you all waiting," she modulated her pitch, accounting for the tacky acoustics of the wide, echoing dwarvish halls, "But I think we are about ready to begin, no?"