A mix of boredom and sadism has Illya taking a few moments to play a game with one of her more . . . mouthy little slaves. So many arrows and only so many places to stick them.

"Don't worry. I'm not going to kill you. Though perhaps once I finish with you, you may wish I had."

The correct way to deal with talkative slaves. If she wanted to talk, she would waste time with diplomacy.

A good way to introduce yourself to Illya; get on your knees and get to work.

Illya's favorite pastime is polluting royal bloodlines with her mixed blood seed. She especially likes doing it to elf royalty.

The correct way to leave your partners after sex is comatose.

Illya has been getting a lot of 'diplomats' entering her territories, most of them there simply to grovel and beg her not to raze their lands. The half blood finds it all rather amusing.

Illya enjoys the spoils of her latest conquest. She always did love those who knew their place.

A whetstone scrapes along the edge of a sword, the half blood focused upon her work. Over and over, she sharpens the edge with an almost mechanical efficiency.

Amazing how /stupid/ some women become when Illya brandishes herself. It's almost like watching a dog hunger after a bone.

Reminder about Illya: Parentage is Orc Father, Elf Mother. The arm that seems to be covered in armor is actually a prosthetic created by magic. She's violent, not stupid.

Illya rises from her bed, leaving her toy for the night quivering on it. She'll come back to it, once she's done with her duties as commander of her forces.

A perfect representation of Illya when she finds something tender and innocent to destroy.

See? Is it not better to surrender? Give up your body. Give up your free will. Give it all to this beast of a woman and accept your place underneath her heel.

This is the future. The dark future that awaits all who oppose her. Your wives, sisters, mothers, lovers. All of them bound to her, womb full of her spawn and enslaved to her cruel will. It is where they belong. It is their /fate/.

The half blood is out and about in camp. She walks through the expansive site, barking orders or partaking in drills to ensure her warband is up to snuff. Once she finishes and returns to her hut, she sits by the entrance. A sigh leaves her.

The soft sound of an axe's edge against a grindstone, metal scraping against rock. The air is cold, the breeze bringing about the scent of smoke and blood.

"How long has it been?" A question she spoke to herself, her axe hefted upwards. The blade gleams with malice, the cold metal long turned rust colored with blood. "How long has it been since I've struck fear into their hearts?"

[Hey. If anybody needs me, I'll be on Thantil Avaclear.]

"Hrmph. Been so busy these days."