Artemisia

Artemisia was born Xena, a powerful name that did not match her delicate boning. The dragoness grew watching her father boast and fight, her mother scold and heal. She dreamed of fighting in the arena, a vicious gladiator with a callous dispatch. But her body was too weak to wield the heavy iron and steel weaponry the fighters favored, and her agility too slow to make use of the strategic nets or tridents.
Secretly, every night, she would practice lifting her father’s sword, until she was old enough that she was moved to the transitional dens. This was the place dragons old enough to leave went while waiting for a chance to seek their fortune elsewhere. Her brothers boasted and laughed like her father, taking turns shoving and wrestling, eager to prove their skills to a new clan.
She quietly studied in her room, gazing down at the wooden dummy sword she had stolen from the training rooms. Healing was her destiny, her mother had reassured her, over books and books of herbs and remedies. But healing wasn’t what Artemisia dreamed of.

Entering a new clan for the first time, Artemisia realized this was the time to assert herself. She spoke with the excitable Lightning spiral, the engineer with the glowing prosthetics, asked her to make a weapon suitable for her hands. The spiral laughed and told her a week would be too long, and Artemisia retreated to her new den to wait.
The weapon arrived before the week end, as Lancelot promised, and the Skydancer could almost sworn her heart stopped. The spear was beautiful, intricate and crackling with contained Lightning magic. The harness for it was equally stunning, a light banding of metal with pistons and pulleys to help recall the spear once launched. It fit perfectly, and Artemisia smiled for the first time in months.

Going to Spirekeeper, the coliseum master, was the next hurdle. He glanced at her and her new weaponry, and told her she missed the laboratory last turn.
It was discouraging, but she pressed on, combing through the training barracks until she ran into Spirekeeper’s top guard, Megatronus. The massive Guardian, to his credit, listened to her passioned speech, cocking his head and critically examining the little Skydancer.
Give him a week, he told her, armor rattling against his scales as he turned to leave. And don’t forget to practice.

Practice she did, going into the groves around their clan and fighting any small beastclan she could find, tolerant trees, and even the air, making sure she could control her gift. Breath worked like a charm, giving Artemisia the division between physical combat and magical energy she craved to excel at.
Spirekeeper summoned her on the last day of that week, four eyes narrowed critically. ‘Don’t make me leave you behind.’ said the fighter, slotting her into the roster. Megatronus behind him nodded minutely at her, a twinkle in his gaze.

Artemisia would achieve her dream, here. All she had to do was work for it.