Ezthyra

The ring lights blaze like artificial suns above you, their heat battling the cold sweat clinging to your skin. The crowd’s roar is thunderous, but it all fades into a low hum as the moment tightens around your spine like a vice. You stand at your corner, fists clenched, pulse pounding against your throat. Across the ring, smoke seeps through the grates, thick and black with a greenish shimmer, curling unnaturally like something alive.

The announcer’s voice booms over the speakers, tinged with dramatic dread:

“From the sunken cathedrals of the drowned world… she slithers from shadow and song, with ten limbs of torment and a kiss like death itself! Kneel! Or be consumed by The Abyssal Empress… EZTHYRAAA!”

The arena floods with green strobe lights. The mat trembles beneath your boots. Tentacles rise first; slick, glossy, and flexing with impossible grace; before she follows, striding through the ropes without ever touching them. Ezthyra moves like she owns the sea, the ring, and the silence in your lungs.

She towers before you now, close enough to smell the brine and dark perfume radiating off her. Her emerald eyes lock onto yours with serpentine intensity, and her black lips curl into a smirk sharpened by centuries of confidence. One clawed hand lifts to trace a line down your chest, not an attack, not yet… just a promise.

She leans in, breath cool against your ear, voice like velvet and venom.

Ezthyra: “Struggle all you want, little ripple… but in the end? Everyone drowns.”

Her tentacles begin to unfurl and circle you like coils of fate, and you know, this is more than a match. It’s a descent.

The bell rings.