Shyla Vantras, Raaaaaaaage!

Out of Character
Name/Handle: Tofferton
Age: One score and 3/20ths of another score.
Gender: Dude! Really!
How did you find us?: Fels kidnapped Rocket and I, and we were brought here under penalty of cake or death.

Character Information
Name: Shyla Vantras
Nickname/Alias: T’shy (she likes it)
Gender: Female.
Age: 28
Species: Mirialan.
Homeworld: Mandalore.
Force Sensitive: Nerp.

Body Information
Clothing Outline: Shyla was never really one for dressing up, so her normal wear is a pair of pants and a tank top. Her beskar’gam, however, is a different manner.

Her armor is, as it is with every Mandalorian, hand-crafted to the specifications and needs of the wearer. In Shyla’s case, the armor itself is like all of her equipment - practical. Artistic designs and symbols adorn very little of the armor, which is more suited towards a mobile defense. A few special modifications include spare slots for oversized power packs for heavy weapons, places to brace and attach said heavy weapons for use or transport, and some secured and shielded areas for carrying explosives and/or delicate components.

The armor itself is fairly standard in terms of coverage, but for times when Shyla knows she’ll be facing lots of enemy fire, it comes with attachable plates that click and lock into place. These plates cover her joints and several other mostly less protected areas at the cost of her mobility and flexibility.

The armor itself is a shining pure white, with blue trim and lines for accent The only symbol that is visible is the sigil of the Gaan’dalase (also in blue), emblazoned on the left side of her chest, right about where her heart would be.

Face Outline: Shyla’s face is rounded, with a strong chin. Her mouth seems almost uncomfortable when she smiles, having it used to being in a straight line of disapproval or turned down into a frown. Moving up, a wide nose with a rounded tip is set below her almond-shaped eyes and straight eyebrows. The Mirialan tattoos on her face are quite visible - vertical diamonds on her chin and horizontal diamond strips on her upper cheeks, right below her eyes, with a black line going over her upper nose connecting those strips. A diamond made of four smaller diamonds sits on the bridge of her nose, between her eyes.

Her hair is jet black, cut to jaw-length, and fairly straight. She parts it, giving it the effect of it framing her face. She doesn’t spend much time on it, aside from basic grooming and keeping it clean.

On the right side of her face, including her cheek, ear, and neck, is a large, healed burn mark from the explosion that took her arm, noticeable via the discoloration of her skin at that patch.

Body Outline: The many years of physical conditioning have served quite well to keep Shyla in excellent shape. As far as build goes, she’s slimmed down, her muscles toned and worked to show off an obviously athletic figure that’s built more for endurance than brute strength. She’s a little rougher cut than most girls, missing the generous curves of the current Gaanla’vod but certainly gifted with enough to be attractive, and the exercise she’s done on her body has accented what she does have. Her skin color, consistent with Mirialans, is a slightly darker apple-green.

The right side of her body, from her outer lower thigh to her outer shoulder and above, is discolored from a large healed burn wound, and her right arm is obviously a cybernetic arm (similar to the ones seen here, minus the blade) - she leaves it exposed with no synthflesh as a personal preference.

Physical Build: Lithe, athletic
Height: 5’ 6”

Combat Information
Faction: Mandalorian - Gaan’dalase Kad Ha’rangir (The Handmaidens of Kad Ha’rangir)
Rank: Evaar’la (New)
Class: (eventual) Cinarin’haal (Cleansing Breath, verd)
Weapon: Underslung Rotary Blaster, Vibroknife
Spaceship: None
Skills:

• Bend, Don’t Break - In keeping with the natural traits of her species, Shyla is exceptionally flexible and agile. She’s taken time to become adept as an escape artist, and she takes advantage of her natural speed and agility whenever she can. In addition, her years growing up as a Mandalorian and being battle-ready have kept her in top physical condition for strength and endurance - necessary for her weapons of choice.
• Tranquil Fury - Shyla’s temper has been wrestled under control, and when she is annoyed, her rage is seething rather than directed outwards. In this state of simmering anger, Shyla is still able to concentrate and keep her cool. Her determination and drive to finish a task increases, and her focus on said task also increases, upping her performance.
• ”I’m going to count to zero...” - There are, however, times when she loses her cool completely. When she finally snaps, Shyla’s rage is quite clear. Her focus and drive change from completing her task to eliminating all obstacles in her way first, be they organic or otherwise. She loses herself in the rage, which is good and bad. Good, because she becomes a force to be reckoned with, ignoring her limits and absolutely determined to triumph. Bad, because she is difficult to calm down or control in this stage - though it should be noted she has never once turned her guns on her allies. Mere bloodlust or annoyance is not enough to get her to this level - she must be utterly furious.
• Tick tick tick... - Shyla has become proficient and knowledgeable with all market explosives and nearly all military-grade ones. She knows how to arm, as well as disarm, various types of bombs and explosives, as well as fashion together improvised ones from whatever she has available.
• Put ‘Em Up! - Being born and bred Mandalorian, Shyla is quite proficient and adept in several forms of martial arts and CQC. She takes advantage of her speed and swiftness and prefers to get the first shot in a fight, catching the opponent off guard. Her own personal style is remeniscent of boxing or bar-fighting - brutal, but effective. She can hit fast and hard, preferring an up-front brawl. Against multiple opponents, she’s capable, using tactics like throwing them against each other and taking them out with hard, devastating hits - her augmented right arm comes in handy here.
• Bigger Is Better - Shyla’s no slouch when it comes to blasters, either. She’s proficient and a good marksman with rifles and pistols, but her real expertise lies in heavy weapons and blaster cannons - the big guns. She’s well-trained and damn good with the use of all kind of large weaponry, including mounted guns and turrets. She’s spend time practicing with her underslung rotary blaster, and in her hands, it’s a terrifying weapon.
• Falling With Style - Shyla can pilot a speeder, and a ship if necessary, but it’s clearly not her forte and she would much rather leave the driving to someone who’s better at it.
• Nothing but a Knife and Her Wits - like every Mandalorian child, Shyla grew up learning how to live and even prosper in unfavorable conditions. Her survival knowledge is wide and covers everything from knot tying to foraging for food to setting up improvised shelters.

Additional Items:

• Level-D Implant slot
• Physical Boost D-Package
• (Armor) Mark V Biorestorative Underlay
• Cybernetic Right Arm - Repli-Limb
• Strength Upgrade - Right Arm

Additional Information
Personality: Shyla’s greatest strength, and greatest curse, is her hair-trigger temper. Originally quite explosive as a child and teenager, it has been restrained somewhat through discipline and acceptance of it. Rather than letting it control her, she’s learned to harness some of that aggression through channeling it into her actions and duties. In combat, this lends itself to first a quiet fury with her anger simmering beneath the surface, then an outright fiery rage that appears if the fight or annoyance is prolonged. This fire, though, gives her the strength to continue and charge on where others may falter, and it keeps her focused on her current task.

Her primarily method of dealing with her nigh-omnipresent fury is by remembering two things: first, the Great Destroyer would not have given her this rage if he did not think she could handle it, and second, the Great Destroyer would not have given her this rage if he did not want her to use it. Years of mental preparation and religious study have given her this mindset since she began to adopt it in her late teens, having tried numerous other methods which didn’t really work. Her actions and certain tasks may be accompanied by a muttered prayer that she came up with as a teen, adopting it as her mantra. Sometimes it calms her down. Sometimes it doesn’t. In every case, though, she uses it as a focus:

Kad Ha'rangir, give me the fire to bring destruction to my enemies, a steady hand to save my sisters, and a keen eye to see the difference.

Even with those she knows and loves, she’s still a little gruff. To those she dislikes, or those who doubt her, she can be downright hostile. Newcomers to her life are always met with some wariness, especially outsiders. She’s never turned a blaster on a vod, but engaging in good old fisticuffs is not uncommon for those who slight her. She has her moments of nice attitude and all smiles, but those are far and few in between, and they usually revolve around when someone is genuinely complementing her for her accomplishments.

She’s exceptionally competitive, but she knows what she is and isn’t good at. Admittedly, that doesn’t mean she won’t occasionally venture outside her known skill sets and try something new. She’s frustrated when she messes something up due to her own incompetence, but she recovers quickly and tries again if she can. For her, failure is not an option.

History:
You are now Shyla Vantras.

You’re about four years old, and you’re being told a story by your father about your great-grandmother, Terezi Vantras. She was the leader of a Mandalorian clan, but a bit of a different one - the Gaan’dalase. She was, just like you, raised in the faith of the Mandalorian religion. She was, just like you, a strong and healthy girl. And she was, just like you, destined for amazing things. You are told that you are the first girl born into the family since her, and because of that, you are meant for much, much more.

You’re not sure how to feel about this. You are only four. You ask for a story about Terezi. Your father smiles and tells you one, about how she defended one of the Mandalorian moons with her sisters against a much larger force. You are told of her brave heroism, of how she lead the charge against the incoming attackers, and how she won with that seemingly foolhardy charge. You are told of her strategy, how her sisters rallied and took the enemy by surprise while she was leading that charge.

You are told many things about her, and she stays in your mind as one of your heroes.

You are about seven. You are an active, competitive child, and after your daily prayers, you look at a picture of Terezi. You ask her for her aid and to watch over you. Your day consists of exercises and practices, along with chores for your parents. You watch your father repair a piece of his beskar’gam, and he smiles as you do. He tells you about it and calls you over so you can help him. He takes your little hand into his - large, strong, and rough, but possessing a gentle feel that you know when he holds you in his lap, though you’ll soon be too big for that.

That night your family has guests over for dinner. Your parents speak with them about how they expect many things from you. They don’t think you can hear them, but you listen in carefully anyway as their child, a young boy, plays with the toy he brought over.

You hear your parents discuss what they expect of you often. It is not the first time, and it will not be the last. You feel somewhat worried about what they expect and you hope to live up to what they want.

You are nine. You know many stories of your great-grandmother, Gaanla’vod of the Gaan’dalase Kad Ha’rangir. You want to be like her some day. So do your parents, who are quite set n the idea. Today you got into a fight with another kid, because he was laughing at you for finishing after he did in a race. You should’ve won, you tell yourself. You could’ve won, but he beat you. You pushed him. He pushed back. Things got worse. Your face is dirty, your lip bleeding, your arms and sides bruised, and your shirt torn. You won, if you can call it that, since he ran off after you smacked him in the ear.

Your mother cleans you up and tells you that she’s sure you’ll do better next time.

You are twelve. You have just finished participating in a clan-wide decathalon, in which you took second in many of the events, but first in none. Your parents smile, but they do not tell you good job. They do not tell you if they are proud, even though you got more medals than anyone else. They do not tell you that they are glad you did your best, even though you did. Instead, they tell you that they’re sure you’ll do better next time.

You pray, resentment brewing in your heart. You don’t know what to do, how you can get better. You resolve to do better the next time anyway. You get madder, not sure how you can. The cycle repeats. Finally you slam your fist into the wall in rage, and there’s a snap.

It takes three weeks for your hand to heal. Your parents are disappointed. They say you should know better. You say nothing.

You are fifteen. You’re taller now, taller than some of the boys, and you finally look like a woman, as you think. You have built your own beskar’gam, after seeing your father work it for some time. It is an odd feeling, putting it on for the first time, and you feel as though it does not yet really fit you - though it is a perfect fit.

Your parents say they have a special guest for you to meet. You walk into the living room and see a tall, fit, blonde woman. She introduces herself as Kuolema, the current Gaanla’vod. She smiles at you, nodding, like she’s sizing you up. You shake her hand. Her hands feel like they’ve been roughly carved.

She tells you how much she respected your great-grandmother, how great a Chosen Sister she was. You’ve heard it before. You feel your temper start to rise.

You manage to keep your calm and you nod, saying that she was a wonderful woman.

Kuolema says she hopes you will join them someday. You say nothing, a shot of frustration going through you, a dark poison. Your parents speak for you, saying that they’re sure you’ll be in Kuolema’s position. Kuolema laughs and says that she hopes you won’t be for a long time. Your parents laugh as well. You don’t get it.

You stay silent. You excuse yourself to your room and listen to them talk for a bit. It is about you, or some of it is. Your parents say they are a bit disappointed in your performance recently, but they’re sure you’ll do better next time.

You growl slightly under your breath. You’ve been getting into more fights. The other kids know how easily you go off, and what buttons to push. Second Place Shyla. Shyla Can’t-ras. You hate the nicknames.

You listen again. They’re talking about Terezi. You growl more. The woman used to be your hero. Now she’s an albatross around your neck, reminding you of what you have to do and what you must be. You always try your best, but to your parents, it never seems good enough.

You are seventeen. You are alone in your family’s shrine, set up in a corner of their home. You used to sit here and pray, finding it peaceful, thinking of Terezi. Now you find it infuriating, but you cannot think of where else to go.

You have again come in second. You tried your best. It was not enough. You didn’t even stay for the honorings, instead slipping out of the crowd and going home. You knew what your parents would say, and you are afraid that if you heard them say it, you would want to hurt them. You are in a foul mood, and that is putting it lightly.

You are tired. You are tired of the constant failure. You are tired of the reassurances. You are tired of your peers. You try and you try and you try, but you fail, and when you fail, you get mad, and when you get mad, you lose focus, and when you lose focus, you fail more. No matter how hard you try, your temper gets the better of you. Your walls have had holes filled. Your things have been broken more than once.

Why, you ask to no one in particular. Why would you give me this rage? You turn and stare at the sigil of Kad Ha’rangir, standing with prominence and focus in the shrine. You talk to it because there is no one else to rage against. You pray, and you work for him, and you do what you do because of him, but he never helps you out.

You finally snap and grab a chair, hurling it at the set up. It crashes into the altar, breaking the chair legs and sending the altar’s contents flying - candles, pictures, and a book of prayers. You breathe heavily, horrified at what you just did, but still feeling no less angry.

You walk over and begin to pick up the mess. You set the altar back up, straighten the sigil, and pick up the book. It has fallen open, and you read what it has opened to:

The significance and value of wanton, random destruction is lost in itself, becoming a travesty almost on the same level as sloth. Destruction,as Kad Ha’rangir has taught us, is meant to create a foundation. It is to set up for rebirth, to begin anew fresh. To destroy merely to destroy is heresy, but to destroy and later create is noble.

The desire to destroy, therefore, is a blessing, a gift granted to Kad Ha’rangir’s faithful so that they may use this gift as a basis for greater things.

You read this passage again and again, sitting down on the floor, shrine half-demolished. The words resound in your head. Right there, you sit for hours, thinking. You wonder if you’d ever read this passage before. You work over it. You hold it close. Your mind wanders. All your life, you’d been lashing out. You’d always wondered if you could control your temper.

You’d never once thought about asking for help along the way.

Your parents find you sitting calmly in the middle of the wreckage. They stare. You look up. You smile, serene. They are confused.

It is the first time anyone has seen you smile genuinely in years.

You are twenty. You have been working on your rage, with help from Kad Ha’rangir. You have developed a prayer that you say when you feel your temper rise. It does not help you get less angry, but it does help you keep your focus where it belongs. So far it has worked, when you have remembered to say it. You feel as though you are being rebuilt in a better way, or at least a way that can be more easily shaped and guided. It is a good feeling

Since you were 18, you have been specializing your talent set. You no longer participating in every competition you can - unless you are challenged. You have found an odd preference for the big and loud weapons, ones that several of the larger Mandalorians use - the heavy ones and the detpacks, all that stuff. You begin to focus your efforts on these weapons, enjoying some of the prestige and challenge they bring.

People are wary of your interest, knowing your volatile temper. You ignore them and work anyway. It pays off. Your parents have not made it known what they think, but you have begun to care less and less. You will show them, anyway. They will see what you can do.

You are twenty-four. You are in the medical lab. An accident has happened, and your right arm has been blown off at the shoulder. A faulty power pack, they said. No one’s fault, they said. Nerfshit, you think. You could’ve seen it. You should’ve seen it. Then you wouldn’t be missing the arm, and then they wouldn’t be down one blaster cannon.

You wake up after surgery to feel something weird where your right arm was. You glance over to see a cybernetic one in it’s place, still uncovered with synthskin. You don’t know how to feel about this. It is strange to feel, stranger to see, stranger still to move.

You decline the doctors when they want to cover it up and make it look like a normal arm. You want to remember what happened, for the future.

The next few months are rough as you get used to it. No one says anything, and no one offers condolences. You don’t want pity, and they know it. The metal arm and the burn scars on your right side are all you need to keep it fresh on your mind, and Kad Ha’rangir would not want you to mope. Destruction brings the chance for a better rebirth.

You soon return to your normal position, and keep on with heavy weapons, looking more into explosives. As morbid as it is, you’re fascinated by what happened.

You are twenty-eight. You look back at the Gaan’dalase. You heard recently that Kuolema was killed in battle, and this brings them to your mind. You had not really been sure what to do with yourself, aside from be ready for battle. Terezi had been a source of anger for you before, but now, you don’t think of her and see what you could be.

You think of her and know you could do better.

Your rage is no less potent than it was back then, but you have managed to temper your aggression. You still recite your prayer when you get mad, every time now. You harness that emotion and energy, bringing it to your aid. Where others fall apart under the pressure and anger, you get stronger.

What better way would there be to honor Kad Ha’rangir with that focus than to do so in his direct service?

You then know your path. You know what you should do and who you should become. It was kind of obvious, really.

Your parents smile when you tell them you are going to join the Gaan’dalase. They tell you they are proud of you. This is the first time in your life you have heard that.

You get on a ship the next day. Before long, you arrive at the compound. You have heard stories. Stories of washouts, stores of hellish tests and dangerous trials. You don’t care.

You’ll pass them all. Bring it on.

RP Sample: Oh, I forgot it at home. Sorry. Tomorrow?

This post has been edited by Shyla Vantras on Jan 18 2012, 10:11 PM