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Name: Apollonia
Age: 22
Gender: Female
Nation/Allegiance: Born and raised on the Ilian-Bernese border.

Appearance/Description: Apollonia would likely be very pretty if she kept herself remotely organized. Her pale blue hair is most often in a state of what might charitably be called “disarray,” while the robes she wears fare little better. Her tomes are inevitably dog-eared and worn from constant reading (or sleeping) and when stored are never far from at least one bottle of Ilian brandy. She is, simply put, a disaster.

In terms of wardrobe, as mentioned, she invariably wears a deep blue robe trimmed with black, worn loosely over trousers, a simple shirt, and leather boots. Her belt under the robe has a hardened leather case for tomes, usually of dark magic, though she uses anima when it suits her. Perched at the far end of her nose are a pair of glasses with lenses of smoked glass.

Bio/Backstory: Apollonia was at one point the pride of her family. Her magical skills were exemplary, she was well-read and courteous and measured of speech, and she would clearly be more than worthy of taking over the magic shop they ran when her parents finally retired. All of this was true. What they didn’t know was Apollonia’s taste for fighting in the arena.

Pitting her dark magic against the skills and weapons of others presented a challenge she couldn’t pass up. Every second was a high, for while fights rarely went to the death, victory hung in the balance each time she stepped onto that floor. She got good at it—so good that she started getting more unofficial challenges. More and more often she would be stopped on the street by those who wanted to take down a witch.

One day, on her way back home from the market, she heard a voice cry out “Blood or dishonor!” from behind her. She wheeled around, magic blazing, and saw a thirteen-year-old kid, gripping a sword he could barely lift. The spell was in flight already. She couldn’t tear her eyes away as she saw a streak of ravenous black flame take off the fool child’s arm at the shoulder. Something inside her wrenched, twisted, and snapped.

She had about twenty witnesses on the street who swore she’d been rightfully challenged. The magistrate exonerated her of legal wrongdoing. She thanked him, stood up, left the courtroom, and crawled straight into the bottom of a bottle, where she remains to this day. She’s looking for three things: a few coins to pay for the next round, a place where her past won’t find her, and something, anything that might help her pay off or put off the burning guilt in the pit of her stomach.