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Irina Tyvalla


Well-Known Member
Hatred, my only passion,
Death, my one romance,
Her white skin is ashen,
As into eternity we dance.

NAME: Irina Tyvalla



SPECIES: Epicanthix

AGE: 37 years

GENDER: Female

HEIGHT: 193 cm

WEIGHT: 84 kg

EYES: Gray-Silver

HAIR: Dark brown, almost black | Dreadlocks

SKIN: Pale and tattooed





  • Irina's awareness and level of perception surpass that of any normal sentient being and even many of Force sensitives'. She is very attentive and rare is the detail that escapes her keen eyes. Hardly anything can go by the Epicanthix unnoticed, as people usually don't even register that she's watching them; she has long ago perfected the art of being discreet.
  • Even if compared to her polished observation skills, her talent with people cannot be neglected; even more, the two are closely connected. Because of her spot-on judge of character, she always comes off as silver-tongued in any conversation. There is never a moment when she doesn't know what so say, do or hint at to get the other's attention and subsequently manipulate them into following her elaborate schemes.
  • Having spent many a year of her childhood and adolescence on the lovely Nar Shaddaa, her street smarts are not to be dismissed. Even if she hasn't visited the Smuggler's moon in quite some time, these things truly are as people say they are; just like riding a bike.


  • For all her strong points, Irina is far from perfect. Despite knowing how to act around people, she always abuses her for the furthering of her own goals; and this leaves her without any people she can rely on, aside from her brother and sister. Because of her own failings, she never trusts others either, always expecting the worst from people.
  • Anything you've ever dubbed as "stubborn" before diminishes in comparison to Irina. When she decides to do or believe something, she's set in those ways for the rest of eternity; nothing save an apocalyptic event could make her change her opinion. She refuses to compromise, negotiate or settle for anything less than what she wants and would go to any lengths to achieve that.
  • As if her stubborn streak weren't enough, the young Epicanthix is also unbearably nosy. As far as she's concerned, she can poke at anything she's capable of; and that's far more than what would be to people's liking. There is not a thing that's safe from prying once she catches the scent of a secret, a scandal or an affair, and she doesn't stop even if explicitly asked to, or, in extreme cases, even when she's threatened. Rather, she takes it all as a challenge, a game, even, and happily goes about her business; well, everyone else's business, actually.



The Epicanthix was born to a wild life on the streets of the Hutt-controlled Nar Shaddaa, the Smuggler's moon. She's never known her parents and never even missed them, much less needed them; she had two older siblings, Emral and Skadi. While her older brother served as a bouncer in one of the many cantinas on Nar Shaddaa, Skadi, the eldest of the three, worked nights as a consort for various crime lords that frequently visited the moon. Because of their overlapping 16-hour shifts, the young girl was often left alone in the cramped apartment above a store in a squalid street. During those long periods of time, she would study her brother's magazines that covered every imaginable topic, from self-defense and job requirements to holo-porn. For Irina, though, it was hardly shocking or even new. Due to the thin walls used in construction of their apartment block, she would stay awake and wide-eye through many a night, trying desperately not to hear what people in adjacent rooms were doing, and failing miserably.

The second she was strong and old enough to work, however, her sister found her a job, saying that if she wanted to sleep at the apartment and keep her appetite sated, she might as well work for it. So she did. Her workplace was a seedy bar not far from their quarter, and there she learned what it meant to be a woman and how to tailor that to your advantage. By the time she was sixteen, she could wrap just about anyone around her little finger; not only that, but she had started enjoying it immensely somewhere along the way. And that's probably how her life would've continued, were it not of that crucial night.

It was a particularly busy evening at the bar and Irina had to put in twice the effort to successfully deliver all of the orders. It was probably why she was so snappy and caustic by the end of her shift, not paying as much attention as usual; and it turned out to be a big mistake, for she jibed one too many a customer. When another waitress came in and finally relieved her, the man was already waiting for her at the back exit, incapacitating her the moment she stepped out into the dark.

When she woke it was already midday and to her infinite horror, Nar Shaddaa was nowhere to be seen. She was in a cabin of a small, modern looking vessel heading Force knew where, naked save for her lacy undergarments. Most people would've panicked in the situation, but Irina kept her cool and took an objective look at the circumstances she'd found herself in. After turning her cabin upside down and finding nothing useful, she decided to venture out into the main body of the ship, hopefully finding some clothes and, if Force was kind, even weaponry. It was her lucky day.

Obviously her captor had thought her incapable of overcoming her drugs and even of sneaking around the ship, but he had, like the most, mistaken her for a tall human. While she was similar at the first glance, her epicanthix constitution made for a much better warrior; she had never been as glad for agreeing to her brother's lessons in self-defense (and Nar Shaddaa's lessons in theft, of course). It was the combination of those skills and her own intelligence that got her alive through that traumatic day. After finding a simple blaster tucked into a pair of boots outside the bathroom, she went to check the pilot's hub, only to find it vacant and the navicomputer set on autopilot. Realizing that the kidnapper was probably taking a shower, she knew it was then or never. With shaky hands she sneaked back to the bathroom, prying the door open with care. She was sweating profusely at the prospect of what was waiting for her beyond that door; to her it was not just a shower cabin and a man, but a decision she had to make – to consciously take a life.

She returned to the navicomputer only after having spent an hour in the shower, cleaning and rubbing her skin with fervor, even if there was no more blood left. To her horror, she found that she had no idea how to pilot the vessel, let alone steer it back home. Realizing the man must've been headed somewhere she left the autopilot on and went in search for clothing.

She had fallen asleep somewhere along the way and when she woke again, the ship had already landed; more accurately, the ship had apparently left too, as she was lying on a cold, hard bed in what seemed to be a cell. Much, much later, guards came by – silent, brooding guards – and led her to a man clad from head to toe in black robes. The man explained to her in no uncertain terms that she could never leave, but seeing as she had been touched by the Force, she had another option. Irina being her typical self – that is, having brains – accepted the offer and a set of black clothes. After that, it was all a blur: the early years in the first appalling society of the Sith, the slow assimilation and understanding of their ways, the rigorous training and the sleepless nights; all culminating in one fearsome individual called Irina Tyvalla.



When will the Republic learn?