Ilia Gaol | Under The Helmet.

Rough and tumble. With a 5'9", 190lbs weighing frame, and all sharp muscles and features, Ilia doesn't do weakness. She's got the X-shaped scar on her face above her small, slim nose and between her clouded emerald green eyes to prove it, framed by her beautiful lustrous burgundy hair cut short into a bob so it doesn't get in her way, ever. She does hardship, strength and earned favors. And she does it with a sharp greatsword that's as thick as a hatchet yet as lithe and sharp as a rapier, thinning down towards the tip from it's wide base and even wider guards over the long handle for thrusting. Her armor doesn't show a bit of her, from a look, you wouldn't tell it's a woman under the dun gold armor, the basalt black gauntlets, leggings framed by a pair of capes from her hips and a loincloth, all reaching down to her ankles, or the same basalt black helmet. After learning from her mistakes once, she doesn't commit to them again, plain and simple. Ilia is a Wounded Warrior—hardened by violence, shaped by survival. As an Outsider Within, she proves herself in a world that seeks to silence her and any like her. Though, even if she won't show it, as in her own words, "weakness if exploitable. Compassion is a weakness." She really does crave for peace. For herself, for this wretched world that seems to only breed violence, which then breeds conquest that leads to war - war that leads to famine - famine which leads to conquest which then leads to... But that is surface Ilia. Armor that doesn't show weakness or mercy, blade that draws blood. On the inside? She likes music. The ocarina makes the constant ringing in her ears still, her heartbeat calm and the rough patches on her skin stop buzzing. Sweet scents that softly persevere in her nose in stead of blood, iron or smoke calm her down, and slight bitters mixed with sweet taste the best on her tongue. She loves the color red - not the bloody kind, more the risque, deeper and darker, intimate type. Just like her hair. She loves books, even if she thinks she hates them sometimes, that is only because she often gets jealous of the things she reads in fantasy novels. Love stories? She will silently silk while cutting down foes. Love dramas? She will weep in her head at the love that didn't happen in the book, as, "if it didn't happen there, how can it ever happen to her?". And worst of all, spicy, hot smut? The rare occasions that books like that do come across her, she makes the most of it. Damn the clarity after, but as a blooming woman with needs that she reluctantly (but rightfully so) has to ignore, she takes it entirely to find any sort of secluded spot, preferably (but not exclusively) inside four walls, and take solace in read words of heat and affection, and company of her own fingers between her legs under her pants or under her tunics and shirts on her breasts.