The Battle for Sythria
Alignment: Neutral Good
Age: 72 years
Height: 5 ft 9 in
Weight: 130 lbs
Hair: Strawberry Blonde with Metallic Sheen
“That’s perfect!” The rotund General paced the tent, his pudgy, red hands clasped behind his buttocks. “You’ve a great mind for this Illyra. Were you a man, you’d be running this army.”
Illyra smiled prettily, faking a blush and looking away humbly.
“Were I a man,” she started, her voice melodic as a lullaby, “I wouldn’t be half as good at what I do.”
She rose from the chaise, the layers of brocade, green fabric flowing around her, swaying with her hips as she crossed the tent to stand behind the General. She placed a delicate hand on his epaulet. “Nor would I have the pleasure to keep company with strong, handsome gentlemen like yourself.
Gregor narrowed his eyes at her, the white tufts of his brow furrowing in the middle of his forehead. Then his weathered face relaxed, the suspicion at Illyra’s sincerity assuaged.
“Had only you known me forty years hence. Wasn’t a handsomer man in the Five Kingdoms.”
“Well Gregor, I did know you then. You were just an ambitious young Corporal, while I was already entertaining you warriors at the Captain’s Ball.”
“That’s right. I always forget how old you are. That beautiful face hides your age so well.”
Behind his back, Illyra narrowed her eyes, the muscles in her jaw clenched in loathing. She took his hand and led him towards a comfortable looking chair.
“Yes General. I am old. I remember when this land had not yet become the Five Kingdoms. Do you recall me telling you about my parents dying in the Capital City when it was obliterated? How my Nana drug me away from them just hours before it happened, begging them to leave their Court duties to flee with us? How I watched the smoke and ashes rise from the ruins, watched the flicker from the fire dance along the coast until the sun rose the next morning?”
The General slumped into the chair. His half-lidded eyes peered up at Illyra groggily.
“Why – why yes. I do remember you mentioning –” He trailed off, his eyes closing and jaw falling slack as soft snores began to whisper out of him.
Illyra covered him with a heavy wool blanket, smoothing the wrinkles down with an almost affectionate gesture.
“And don’t you ever forget why I’m here. You blundering old man,” she said, her voice now flat, nothing similar to the purling song she wove just moments before. Illyra turned to the warped mirror on the wardrobe door, combing her slender fingers through the lengths of rose-blond hair cascading over her breasts. The strands took on a metallic sheen in the wavering lamp light, radiant as a sunrise. “However am I supposed to learn which of your scoundrel Captain’s is a spy if you don’t close your stupid mouth.”
She cast a disdainful look over her shoulder at the gasping, wheezing man. Plastering a smile on her exquisite face, Illyra turned in a whirl of skirts, blew out the lamp and waded into the black night.