A compact amber champagne beauty. Or well, a beauty to some. It’s clear in her wild and reckless youth Ifygnia made a habit of getting into precarious situations, various scars crossing along her body. Those most of note are three raking claw marks at the high point of her croup, a gash following the curve of her side (one she insists was superficial, but the soft flesh of her belly took to the injury and determined itself be emblazoned for the rest of her life), several more claw marks in various sizes and sets follow her shoulders and front pistons, though perhaps the most prominent of all of her scars is the set that crosses over her right eye, following the curve of her brow and down the length of her muzzle. Though her eyes are already a deep blue, this one foggy, although she insists there is little to no vision lost. Other minor cuts and abrasions have healed with time and faded back into her pelt, but these ones seem determined to be cast on display. If one can look past these things, it’s plain to see she was an example of her breeding. A haflinger cross (perhaps Appaloosa if her coat is any indicator) with a solid build, proportionate and strong, though stocky. The pale gold of her hide is splashed with cream, a blanket falling over her flank and up her spine, speckled with soft brown birdcatcher spots, four stockings for her feathered pistons and a proud blaze from forehead to nares, where a rudimentary bronze loop makes its home. She appears to have tattooed herself with ruddy ink, the colour still vibrant, though she must have had them for many years. The mare’s audits are tipped with two rows of chevrons, as well as a single pair of bronze loops, short and stout. Her cheeks carry a stylized pattern that looks akin to some kind of paw with rows of dots curving along her jaw. At her shoulders is another stylized tattoo, the right side marred by old scarring, though the left has been undamaged and is clear. The left front piston carries a band of stripes and points, as well as the right rear. Auburn hair is left to fall predominantly loose about her, though white streaks are carefully plaited and several decorative beads in hues of teal and bronze intermingle. Her tail is wrapped in leather at the dock and thus is carried in a more lifted fashion- if she were to unwind the locks they would barely brush the ground.

Competitive | Quick Temper | Brash | Honest | Loyal | Jovial | Wisened | Reckless | Fair | Steadfast

Ifygnia isn’t known for having much patience or a soft tongue. She believes in brutal honesty, as sugarcoating never really helps anyone. Tact? Never heard of ‘em. She doesn’t speak to be cruel, do not mistake it for that, she just sees very little merit in most social graces. If she doesn’t like you, she’ll make it known. Though she is quick to temper and can be abrasive, she is largely a joyful person who revels in the company of others, often swapping stories for drinks and participating in various trivial competitions. If there is one thing Fig can’t turn down, it’s a challenge. This drive has proven itself to manifest as reckless abandon on more than one occasion and the reminders are ones that she carries with her. Don’t be fooled, though- she loves her scars, and takes pride in the stories behind them, just as much as she enjoys passing on the hard-earned wisdom from those encounters. In her retirement these exploits have softened quite a bit to the odd tavern brawl or rowdy festival, though there is still a glint in her eye when she catches wind of some other exciting adventure. She’s a steadfast companion once you earn her loyalty and trust, admiring those with a deep work ethic. Her desires from people are simple- treat others fairly, with honesty, so long as you can do that she could care less about where you came from or where you’re going. She’s not one to judge; unless you’re being boastful- then she might knock you down a peg on principle.

Ifygnia was born to a small herd, preferring to keep themselves on the outskirts of polite society. Their skill with hunting and skins were widely praised and sought after, and so it was only a matter of time before young Fig took up a bow and joined them. While she enjoyed the thrill of hunting, of planning and outsmarting their mark, she was often impatient and quick to draw; she ruined more than a few arduous hunts that way. She never fully developed the patience to lay in wait, and as she grew, the mare sought out more adventurous prey, ones that required quick action. This suited her for a few years, though her recklessness found herself at odds with anyone she traveled with, and on the wrong end of a bear or a cougar more than once.

She briefly flitted with a mercenary group, partially for the challenge of it, and mostly for the pride. It was work that, aside from her skins, she felt she could be proud of. And she was, when the work was honest and in the name of a better world and justice. Through her adventures with this ragtag group of swords for hire, she traveled the better part of the world, indulging in different cultures and beliefs. At some point a job led them to an abandoned temple, crumbling and forgotten to time- the locals had warned there was a curse upon the place, of some kind of eternity. Fig had never been particularly superstitious, but to this day, that venture sends chills up her spine. She rarely, if ever speaks of it.

Still, she traveled with the band so long as she found the work rewarding. It became less when those she was affiliated with took on morally questionable jobs, where she distanced herself and spent most of her time in camp repairing armour and seeing to the leatherwork. When they were hired to assassinate the heir of a wealthy family so that the ailing head of house might have a few more years to rule, she parted ways and officially retired. There was no bad blood between them, as they understood that she’d never truly been bound to their codes and ideals, and while Ifygnia couldn’t stomach the thought of ending a life just to prolong the inevitable, she did not see her former companions as cruel, much as others might have. Perhaps it was her many years with them, sleeping and fighting beside them, knowing their hopes and dreams and fears, what made them mortal and mundane- she could not see them as the monsters some claimed them to have become.

These days she makes her home on the edge of the swamp, having hung up her bow above the mantle, handling exotic hides and selling them to craftsmen. Though she rarely has the time or desire to try her hand at needle and thread, when she has the patience to do so, her skill in creating comfortable and practical armour is just as good as ever. She prefers to spend her evenings in taverns and pubs, drinking with other regulars and regaling anyone who will listen about her scant years adventuring. She still handles her old weapon, keeping it in working order, though rarely if ever does it see real use.

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Accessories: Various lengths of beaded accents in hair, small earrings and a septum- bronze

Weapon: A single skinning knife, held in a worn leather holster around her neck. The blade is curved, the handle made of antler, her name carved into the side.

Weapon : Standard longbow, made of dark wood with minor carving details. Retired and sits above the mantle

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