Age: 32

Gender: Male

Race: Human

Appearance: Altogether disquieting to behold. Clocking in at 6'4" and all of it broad, thick muscle, the Son of the Shilage line wears his personal power like a imposing cloak about his person, each movement assured and deliberate. His gaze, when not hidden beneath the shadows of his helm, is prying, as though never far from looking for a way to open you up at the seams. His voice is an almost oppressive drone, the low rumble of splitting boulders. In times of leisure, his clothing is decidedly neutral in hue, favoring greys and browns. Hair falling to his shoulders in an unassuming mullet, it and his eyes both are dull and brown.

Personality: Tempered by wisdom and age, István represents his family of minor hedge lords within the Lions' ranks in much a similar manner as his forefathers had won any standing to begin with— brutally, and with ambition. He is noble by birth and training, not nature— often blunt and crass, just as likely to use his wits as a heavy, unvarnished club as he is to deftly trade acerbic barbs and polite doublespeak when faced with an enemy, or even annoyance. Raised by glorified soldiers, this base crudeness belies a healthy knowledge of the value of understanding one's peers and foes in equal measure, of reading tendencies and personas. Like a shark circling the waters, his eyes are restless in their search through what he's shown to try and find what makes you tick. While he doesn't lack a sense of humor, much of it is rooted in the grand and intoxicating ironies of struggle— happily shared among often unwilling audiences.

Indeed, he is staunchly and perhaps surprisingly process-driven and analytical, taking a craftsman's approach to many walks of life. He is educated well beyond that which is suggested by his demeanor and bearing, every bit the heir to a household, however minor it is. Lives life with a sense of fair play, rarely rankling at disagreements or insults earned by his blunt behavior. Believes in the value of doing one's job well, whatever it may be. As a Lion, he extends this expectation to his peers as much as he does himself— and is more than ready to turn that mind so gleeful in pulling things apart towards the task of helping people put their shit together. Everything has a structure, so it shall be robust.

His service to the banner's cause is one he has never sought to question, for it has time and again proven useful to his personal goals. He seeks to foster himself towards a proper familial succession— and following that, expand the holdings of his family. They have their foot in the door now— he will etch the Shilage name into the annals of history. To do that, he understands well that he would best reach this by dignified service and forging friendships— and for however one may find his method of navigating them, they shall too find him rare to renege upon those bonds.

Brief Backstory: "All that is held by blood, shall too be earned by blood." That is the creed of the Shilage family, to which Istvan was born. Recently uplifted from their roots of common soldiery in the Royal Army, the Shilages are still small fry as far as nobility is concerned— but if the Hraesleg are any indication, it is far from their ceiling. If such prominence could be found in continued military service, then they would be fools to not follow that blueprint.

Thusly, István was made to begin learning the crafts of war and rule from the moment he could walk, under the watchful eyes of both his parents and the best tutors their newfound status could muster. Knowing nothing else, he took to the lessons as a fish does to water, growing tall and strong beyond even his father by the time he reached manhood. The culmination of their efforts, he was literate and even cultured, but most of all fierce enough for service. His father's private worries that a posh and privileged upbringing would dull the ruthlessness that had served their military careers well were thankfully ill-founded— István was all but knocking down his door to ask when he would be going off to fight and prove himself.

His answer came in the form of house Demet collecting upon an old favor to the Shilage, as he was sent far to the north to assist Earl Edric in rooting out a cadre of bandits that had continually been harassing villages and townships. Once there, it was within short order that the scion of the new family had brought the old lord the head of a nuisance— and in exchange, requested to pledge his service for a time, both in thanks to his father's old friend and to better experience with his own eyes the true rigors of rule. Amused by the upstart's initiative and intrigued by his efficiency, Edric came to agree to István's terms. He would teach the heir to nascent house of southrons what he would need to know, should the plans István spoke of so boldly come to fruition— and in exchange, Edric would in no uncertain terms have his head should he dare challenge the succession of his young son Cadmon. István agreed readily. His designs were never here.

Years passed as István diligently worked as an understudy to Edric, having whipped most of the remaining bandits into an expeditionary force for his Lord— the same that had once followed the man he'd slain. As held through blood, earned through blood. They participated in numerous border skirmishes alongside Demet forces beneath István's command, specializing in breaking the enemy down from the edges, one by one, until they came apart at the seams. He served in Edric's minor court, learned his methods of administration, arbitrated small, petty disputes. It was the trial run he would need for statecraft. His retainership and service would, even in spite of a rough-hewn personality, ingratiate him to the family— even being entrusted with watching over Cadmon's military training, as Edric and his other retainers continued to try and groom the gloomy boy for succession.

This would prove vital in the coming years.

News of Edric and Amelie's death, now as though beloved Aunt and Uncle to him, struck swift and strong to be both he and the heir in their wake— but the older man had the privilege of time and experience on his side that the boy sorely lacked. He would for the two years proceeding become the lad's taciturn but shrewd advisor, imparting every lesson the father had bequeathed him unto the son in turn. When the summons from Lord Hraesleg came, István followed the boy, his Raiders in tow— however he may have been poised to administrate in the family line's absence, he liked having his head.

Such would not be Earned through Blood, either.

Equipment: A heavy flail, replete with a spiked head and pommel, nicknamed "Meteor". Sturdy kiteshield, every bit a weapon as it is protection in his hands. A humble, nameless arming sword at his side, and a harness of plate topped by an imposing great helm. Carries upon his person charcoal and parchment, both for use in writing messages as well as idly sketching drafts.

Skills: Strong, sturdy and brutal, the son of a house of glorified soldiers should not come as a shock in having a calling for violence. He is battering ram and castle gate alike, crushing his foes with mighty swings of his flail, leveraging its inherent unpredictability to the fullest. As stated already, his preferences are for methodically breaking foes both on tactical and strategic scales apart at the seams, taking their full measure into his understanding.

Atop this, he is diligent at reading those around him— certainly not prescient, but capable of more piercing insight than first glance would suggest. Good at talking shit, serviceable at talking nice. A fair draftsman for technical drawings in the vein of construction or military matters, though his still life lacks expression through the charcoal. A consistent coffee drinker, he has a discerning taste for a good brew.