Maneater
(#55585857)
She/Her || YOU'VE LIKED THE REST, NOW LIKE THE BEST!
Clout
Wasteland Collector
Click or tap to view this dragon in Predict Morphology.
Energy: 50/50
This dragon’s natural inborn element is Plague.
Female Gaoler
This dragon is an ancient breed.
This dragon is hibernating.
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Personal Style
Ancient dragons cannot wear apparel.
Skin
Scene
Measurements
Length
11.8 m
Wingspan
4.85 m
Weight
9165.75 kg
Genetics
Black
Jaguar (Gaoler)
Jaguar (Gaoler)
Obsidian
Rosette (Gaoler)
Rosette (Gaoler)
Obsidian
Gnarlhorns (Gaoler)
Gnarlhorns (Gaoler)
Hatchday
Breed
Eye Type
Level 25 Gaoler
Max Level
STR
7
AGI
5
DEF
7
QCK
5
INT
5
VIT
9
MND
7
Lineage
Biography
M A N E A T E R
PLAGUE // SHE/HER // GAOLER
PLAGUE // SHE/HER // GAOLER
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OOO
OOO OOO OOO OOO OOO OOO OOO OOO      Maneater Arena Announcer // Cutthroat Mogul 45   Cis GNC Woman // Lesbian 
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OOOHer presence is, in a word, overwhelming. Frightening to some, intoxicating to others, something that demands attention and compliance nonetheless.
OOOThough, on the surface, Maneater seems to lack the means to draw such a crowd. She's not the largest Gaoler (on the smaller side of average, one may cautiously observe), and her substantial muscle mass maintained more for utility than show is hardly unusual for an individual of her breed. Even her eyes, a virulent mess of primal organs embedded into her skull and surrounded by a fleshy, sinuous mass of not-quite-scar-tissue, don't exactly draw stares in the Wasteland. And people like her are even less unusual a sight there; crime lords and moguls with big mouths and bigger hoards stalk every desolate corner of the damned place, hunting for misfortune and leaving quiet carnage in their wake. Maneater would know— she can't go a day without some overeager big-shot trying their luck, thinking they can outsmart and out-scam the arena owner who makes her living bleeding others dry. OOOAsk her how she does it, how she protects her own assets while raking in others', and she'd tell you it's almost too easy. Yeah, yeah, don't show your hand, but there's really nothing to it. Granted, it'd take a hell of a lot of guts to even consider asking her something so directly, but that's only because of what her answer would be; don't let anyone get away with anything. Guests can't belittle her. Gamblers can't argue with her. Racers can't go behind her back. Laborers can't negotiate with her. Debtors can't go unpunished. Anyone she thinks would be better off dead can't carry on living. Life's just too goddamned easy once you start thinking like that. OOOThe infrastructure she's already got set up certainly helps maintain Maneater's philosophy, but there's something in those eyes that promises she has no issues personally demanding respect. Mutual respect, she'd say, mostly referring to those elite and powerful guests her arena entertains, but the distinction hardly matters when she sees everyone she comes in contact with as a financial tool just the same. The real trick is pretending she doesn't— a voice too loud to lie and words vague enough to satisfy does wonders to either assuage a colleague or terrify an underling. And, provided someone doesn't get in the way of what she wants in the first place, there really should be minimal reason for dread… "should" being operative. She'll do just about anything to get what she wants— be it through bribery, blackmail, schmoozing, intimidation, or any other matter of persuasion. If one method doesn't work, she'll try another, and if all else fails, she'll gladly throw someone else (ally or enemy, bystander or victim, she can't tell the difference) under the bus to make it work. OOOAll of which might be why Maneater makes such an impression. Sure, the Gaoler hardened and aged by her life in the Wasteland may make ostentatious fashion choices, clearly intending to be no stranger to attention nor caring what (if any) consequences she faces for it, but more than appearances alone make the dragon. Rather, it's the way others keep their heads down around her. The way they flinch at the stomping of her boots, the rattling of her claws, the clanging of her chains, and the scraping of her leather. The way they sigh in relief when they smell smoke rather than hear screams. The way they cheer from a distance, but freeze up close, the way they suddenly see something stiff and dead in those glassy eyes and creases of her fanged smile. The way that the thought alone of challenging her is enough to make them feel sick, regardless of where they stand in her eyes. Some people crave a power like that, while others know that it's hardly a status to aspire to. Wherever Maneater stands, or perhaps once stood, all that can be said is that she's certainly mastered her presence. OOOAnd the arena thrives for it. |
 
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In the northern reaches of the Scarred Wasteland lies— embedded in its grisly, sponge-soft soil— a great, violent construction of harsh metal and brutal edges. Grasping bars erect an elliptical dome, casting the pit below them in hatched shadows, sun streaming between their gaps and a wide-open shattered, gnarled center. The whole structure is larger than an Emperor in scale, and roars with the glory and anger of countless rat rods within, but the cage's resident monster is none other than the Gaoler behind it.
The Blackclaw Arena. Pit races occur day-in, day-out, enthralling audiences in their fiery violence and triumphant victories, and all narrated by the quick-talking, roaring voice of the arena's own charismatic announcer, and owner: Maneater. She's what keeps the masses crawling back for their show, racers striving to claw their way into her rosters. Her deadly swagger and skilled upkeep of the arena is only half of the draw, with a vivid gambling scene supplying the arena with cash and labor alike, and a private lounge for the Wasteland's elite keeping some of the most powerful (and their dirty secrets) in Maneater's back pockets. But it doesn't take much to see the dark underbelly of the pit, and to hear the sheer evil bleeding from every word that slips from Maneater's tongue. The location itself is outside of any clans' jurisdiction. Laborers around the Blackclaw Arena speak of bets made on credit, rash and desperate decisions that indebted them to Maneater, and the bloodied claw that hangs above their neck, should they ever fail to make payment or, Plaguebringer forbid, try to run. Roving clans of Wasteland hyenas show no fear of dragons, only a steady aggression, and a perverse taste for the ever-replenishing red stains and draconic, medical refuse outside of the arena's infirmary. Maneater herself is more of a caricature than a truly living dragon as she walks the arena grounds; always wearing her showbiz smile, always reeking of the smoke that tries to restrain something explosive just below the surface. Still, the arena persists, for one thing is certain. No matter what she does, and no matter who she hurts, people will always flock to Maneater.
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F A M I L I A R
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OOO OOO OOO
THE HYENAS
 
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OOOThe laughter echoes like a chorus. Through tragedy, or through triumph, there is never a silent moment. OOOThe local hyena clan overruns the area around the arena like something feral, made fearless by proximity and aggressive by scarcity. The main difference seems to be that no one can recall a time when the hyenas weren't around— though the cubs seen being carefully escorted between structures by watchful matriarchs indicates that they may long outlive the arena, too. The only dragon they seem to display any sort of affection towards is Maneater herself (and perhaps a few of her elite employees, if they've known the dragon's touch from a young enough age), though plenty still express a healthy fear of the Gaoler. Ask anyone in the arena, and they'd say that she's never so much as scolded the things; there must be something deeper, something primal that drives them away. OOOBut the hyenas who feel most comfortable are the ones who receive names; monikers like Clout, Treasure, Fodder, Waste, Greed, and more seem like awfully reductive labels for the creatures that Maneater cares for so greatly, but they're names that have persisted through generations. After all, she remembers their names better than any real fodder that gets chewed up and spat out by her arena, and— judging by the fact that the hyenas which prowl the arena grounds have claws stained with far more blood than even the deadliest pit races spill— the clan plays their very own role in that process. |
R E L A T I O N S H I P S
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H O A R D
G A L L E R Y
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Click or tap a food type to individually feed this dragon only. The other dragons in your lair will not have their energy replenished.
This dragon doesn't eat Insects.
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This dragon doesn't eat Seafood.
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Exalting Maneater to the service of the Plaguebringer will remove them from your lair forever. They will leave behind a small sum of riches that they have accumulated. This action is irreversible.
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