( human food holds no lure for him. it simply exists, dead and cold and tasteless. blood has sustained him well beyond the shadow of human memory. but, as with all forms of death and rebirth, godric is learning the ways of this world anew.

someone pushes the food into his hands. it drips with grease, and he wraps it with paper towel. the first person he can smell humanity on gets it held out to them. he appears as nothing more than a sixteen year old boy, though there is an odd, uncanny aura of wrongness that permeates the air around him. he is not what he seems. too pale, too still. he breathes only when he needs air to speak. )

Please. It will go to waste if it remains with me.

( his voice is oddly calm. a faint accent wends its way through the words, though it is difficult to place. )

( survival or death. it has been a long time since those were necessary words. yet, death bore him here, and survival is again the order of his day. he does not believe in doing anything by halves. if this place necessitates his existence then he will exist as he has done for millennia.

he steps into the ring shirtless, in soft white pants. surveys the crowd. his opponent.

if you are one to judge by appearances, he seems like nothing else so much than a small, pale boy of sixteen summers, an odd circling of tattoos beneath his collarbone. he stands with confidence and surety that can only be misplaced in one so young.

fighting to win and not to kill is not a talent he has exercised in some years, but he will do it. to his opponent, in a voice that does not carry to the crowd: )

It would be prudent that you forfeit. There is no shame in it.