She’s tall and whipcord-thin, an arena barbarian from an era when women fought freely on the sand. Long braids of hair, woven with beads and strips of pale leather stream down her back; the shaved sides of her scalp bear intricate tattoos, similar to the ones that cover her arms and back. At rest, her smooth, angular face looks like some pale northern Minerva, beautiful and untouchable. Angered she becomes a beast or devil, snarling, baring teeth, her eyes devoid of anything that could be called intelligence. Her tongue clicks and vibrates, building up an ear-splitting, ululating cry. She leaps, she rolls, she tumbles, she whirls, she somersaults, part Colosseum entertainer, part screaming savage.
Wing: Legio Mortuum
Apparent Age: Late teens
Victrix wears her arms and armour proudly, even when arms and armour are inappropriate. She speaks with the strong, heavy accent of the of the Picts in short, staccato, phrases. Her voice is harsh, sounding like the sharp ringing tone of hail clattering against a legionary helmet.