Name: Ilyra Stoutborn Age: 26 Gender: Female Nationality: Regna Ferox Allegiance: Herself first, Regna Ferox second Class: Knight Level: 10 Weapon Levels: Heavy Lances – C, Medium Lances - C Weapons: Gnasher – Halberd, Great, Iron, Killer Gnasher is Ilyra’s main weapon, having been in her possession for nearly a decade. To most, the halberd itself is nondescript and virtually indistinguishable from any other weapon of its sort. To Ilyra, however, the weapon is one-of-a-kind. The handle is worn to the contour of her hands, the spacing optimal for her height, and the weight slightly greater than most ordinary halberds. It, along with her armour, once belonged to her great-grandfather, both of which she stole from her father before she set off from home to make a name for herself. Coward’s Bane – Spear, Thrown, Glass, Quick-Draw Along with her trusty halberd, Ilyra carries a small set of throwing spears that she affectionately dubs the “Coward’s Bane.” They are simple and easy to replace, and serve as a quick ranged option for when opponents attempt to flee their honorable demise. Appearance: Standing barely five feet tall, yet sporting a rough and rugged warrior’s visage, Ilyra is often regarded as a physical paradox. Her diminutive stature and childlike countenance belie the piercing gaze and vicious snarl often plastered across her face in the heat of battle. At first glance, Ilyra gives the impression of indifferent dishevelment, her messily-swept bangs protruding wildly from beneath a dirty, dark green bandana. Braided, and bound with a simple clasp, the frayed ends of Ilyra's purple pigtailed hair swing about freely, though she pays little mind. A set of wide, determined eyes peer out from beneath the bangs with a seductive gleam, her eyes and hair a matching shade of purple. Accenting her youthful appearance, a petite and narrow nose crests nicely between her eyes and a mischievous half smile. Her face and lips are a pale, natural colour, the skin rough from both combat and the infamously harsh Feroxi winters. A simple metal circlet sits haphazardly upon her brow, the dull metal worn and scratched from countless battles. Rarely, if ever, is Ilyra seen clad in anything but her trademark suit of heavy armour. Battered and beaten, the deep green and gold-gilded armour envelops the girl whole, the scale just shy of comically oversized. Obviously built for one far more masculine, the suit sits awkwardly upon Ilyra’s lithe frame, held in place purely by years of grueling training and astounding muscle control. The inner side of the armour, and matching set of boots, is covered in a soft fur, presumably to lessen chafing and irritation, as Ilyra often wears little, if anything, while inside the suit. During those intermittent occasions where Ilyra needs to remove her armour, be it sleep or bathing, she wears only a simple green tunic and padded leggings, opting to go barefoot unless absolutely neccessary. Personality: Vulgar and brash, Ilyra lives by a true warrior code. Violence is always the answer, with raunchy love-making a close second. If it can’t be solved by fighting or fucking, then you’re not trying hard enough in Ilyra’s eyes. Growing up in warrior-centric society as a diminutive woman has given Ilyra motivation to go above and beyond what most would consider normal. What was once the drive to prove herself and redeem her family name has now become a certified obsession. Every choice is weighed against the power and progress it will bring her, leading Ilyra to choose the most rewarding paths regardless of whether they are in her best interest. Stalwart and intelligent, Ilyra runs into trouble with authority on a constant basis. She sees orders as more of a tactical guideline, believing that instincts should be held above the commands of those who would seek to sit back in safety and order those who would fight into battle. This often puts her into direct conflict with her superiors, and, despite her obvious skill and prowess, has kept her from advancing past the rank of captain. On the subject of religion, and the neighbouring countries to her homeland’s south, Ilyra has a simple view: Masking the lust of battle behind the decrees and banners of a theoretical deity who cares little for the affairs of the common man is what makes these countries weak and vulnerable. Backstory: Ilyra speaks rarely, if ever, about her past. Around camp, hushed voices tell extravagant tales of murder and deceit, rumors and half-baked accounts giving way to legends and myths. The truth, however, is a little less grand. Ilyra Lofgern entered into the world amid a cacophony of deafening wails, her frail form dwarfed by her father’s enormous, yet delicate, hands. It was clear that the babe was a runt, her infantile features smaller than one thought could be possible. Ilyra’s mother, hysterical from pain of birth, was certain her newborn would not survive the night. As he comforted his wife, Ilyra’s father remained silent, his eyes glued to his first born, his darling daughter. There was a strength in her, he knew, a strength his family had long forgotten. As the snow began to fall outside, Ilyra’s father smiled ever so slightly, certain his child would be just fine. Ilyra developed slowly, mocked incisively for both her diminutive stature and soiled name. For generations, her family had been regarded as cowards and weaklings, a disgrace to the Feroxi people. Ilyra grew to hate her father and his lineage, spitting on them and the humiliation they had wrought upon her. Ilyra’s father watched with a heavy heart as his daughter’s love turned to loathing, her contemptuous gaze burning with disgust. Ilyra was barely sixteen when her plan came to fruition. Her father, in a futile attempt to prove himself to his daughter, reluctantly joined the other men of their village on their yearly hunt, much to the Ilyra’s surprise. A flutter welled in her chest as he bid his family farewell, his sullen gaze falling upon the girl as he promised to redeem himself. For an instant, Ilyra felt a spark of pity for her father as he trudged away, his thin form dwarfed by the hulking huntsmen. She knew however, that he could do nothing to redeem their family. Taking advantage of his departure, Ilyra stole away that night, her family’s most precious heirlooms in tow. Lorgan Lofgern had once, long ago, been a mighty chieftan, the last great man of House Lofgern. His beaten armour and worn halberd were revered by his pathetic kin, a practice that had sickened Ilyra. Her family was not worthy of such an ancestry. Donning the bulky suit, Ilyra vowed to bring honour and glory to the armour, and the memory it carried. She would show her father what redemption meant. Though she knew how to fight, cold and hunger were foes Ilyra could not vanquish with the tip of a spear. Reluctantly, she sought out the nearest military encampment, hoping to trade service for food and shelter. Being both diminutive as well as a woman, Ilyra had to fight for her place every day. She had to run faster, hit harder, and curse louder than any other recruit to merely stay relevant. Whether out of fear, or jealousy, the girl eventually gained the nickname Stoutborn, something she embraced with inclination. Ten long years transformed Ilyra from a fickle youth into a brutal machine of death, a rising star among the West Feroxi army. Eventually, the girl was granted her own regiment, and the rank of captain. Now her goal is simple: To join the ranks of Khan Basilio's retinue, or perhaps even claim the title of Khan itself... Notes: N/A Approved by Darth
