It's said that a RA's road is paved with the corpses of the fallen. For the one called Rayqusa, it has been a long road indeed. To outsiders, often mistaken for simple, brutish creatures. Their language has no written form; their culture lacks pictographic traditions, structured music, formalized religion. For Rayqusa, combat is the perfect articulation of thought, the highest expression of self. If killing is an art among RA, then Rayqusa the Warlord is their greatest artist. He rose to dominance on the proving grounds of Asgard, an ancient arena where RA's clans have for millennia gathered to perform their gladiatorial rites. As his fame spread, spectators came from far and wide to see the great Rayqusa in action. Always the first to step into the arena, and the last to leave, he composes a masterpiece in each guttering spray, each thrust of blood-slickened blade-length. It is the poetry of blood on steel, flung in complex patterns across the pale sands of the killing floor. Rayqusa defeated warrior after warrior, until the arena boomed with the cheering of his name, and he found himself alone, the uncontested champion of his kind. The great belt of Asgard was bestowed, wrapped around his broad torso, but in his victory, the death-artist found only emptiness.