Rylen
Mynock
Rylen
| Age | Just shy of 19 |
| Species | Mirialan |
| Gender | Bro |
| Height | Average |
| Weight | Average |
| Force Sensitive | Maybe |
Among his family:
"He could have been one of the greatest among us if he had only learned discipline."
Among spacers:
"If you need cargo delivered on time, don't hire Rylen. If you need cargo delivered through a pirate blockade...hire Rylen."
PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION
Prominent facial markings, green Mirialan skin, one ear piercing, and multiple leather bands worn at all times on his wrist.
INVENTORY
X-wing. BB8 unit: 'Goblin.' Sic threads and boots.
PERSONALITY AND BELIEFS
Impulsive, hates authority, terrible at planning ahead, avoids emotional conversations like the gulag plague. Carefree/jokester.
STRENGTHS
- Exceptional natural pilot.
- Charismatic without trying.
- Quick thinker under pressure.
- Loyal to friends.
- Adaptable and mechanically gifted.
- Heals quickly.
WEAKNESSES
- Impulsive
- Hates authority
- Swimming is questionable
- Lightweight
HISTORY
Rylen grew-up on Dantooine to a nerf/farming family, the sixth of seven children, born into a family where discipline wasn't just expected—it was the foundation of everyday life. Every sibling seemed to embody the ideals of Mirialan culture: patient, focused, spiritually grounded, and eager to earn the geometric tattoos that marked meaningful achievements. Rylen was a whole lot different. He skipped meditation to watch freighters land. He snuck away from ranch duty and lessons to race borrowed farming machines through canyon passes. He cared more about the sound of an ion engine than ancient teachings about balance and destiny.
His parents never doubted he had potential, but they were constantly frustrated that he seemed determined to waste it. Every lecture about responsibility only pushed him further away. While his brother and sisters collected achievements worthy of new facial markings, Rylen's face remained comparatively bare—a quiet reminder that he never cared much for proving himself by anyone else's standards. The one place where everything made sense was a cockpit.
He could instinctively feel the balance of a ship in flight. Landing in crosswinds, threading through narrow rock spires, or squeezing every last bit of performance from aging engines came as naturally as breathing. Local cargo pilots began hiring him as a co-pilot while he was still a teenager, partly because he was talented and partly because he would take jobs no sensible adult wanted. By fourteen, he had become known around nearby spaceports as the kid who could fly almost anything but was equally likely to arrive late, argue with customs officials, or spend his entire paycheck repairing someone else's ship because he "felt bad."
Eventually, after one too many reckless flights and one particularly embarrassing incident involving an unauthorized atmospheric race through a sacred valley, his father gave him a choice: stay and commit to the family's way of life, or leave and discover what kind of man he wanted to become.
Rylen chose the stars before sunrise the next morning and set out to join up with the High Republic. Flight school and then service.
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