Gala Longbraids

In the years before the Skyiron Dominion’s commitment to the liberation of Yakai from the Mikage Autocracy, Gala Longbraids was a notorious gang-leader, brawler, and drunkard. With flaming red hair and two braids of which were iron-tipped, marking her as a particularly delinquent student, she was highly recognizable. The fact that she was never without a crew of foul-mouthed and belligerent followers did her reputation little good. Together, Gala and her gang never passed up a good fight or post-punch up drink with their fellow combatants to celebrate the new bonds forged in the timeless crucible of street fighting. It was during one of these mammoth drinking sessions that Gala overheard a pair of off-duty soldiers talking about something she had never known to happen before. War. Dominion armies marching abroad in strength for the first time in centuries. Their destination was Yakai. Their enemy, the Mikage Autocracy. Not one for subtlety, Gala rushed to the soldiers, grabbed them both, and demanded they tell her everything. The two Dwarves stammered and slurred that they had no idea. It was a rumor that senior officers refused to deny. Skyiron had long placed host to refugees from Yakai. Its alliance with the Shadowkin rebels and the Sylvan of the Mistwood had been cemented earlier that same year in the formation of the Nyresan Union. Gala ordered fresh ales for the soldiers and returned to her gang. She told them to drink up. They had a war to fight. For once Gala’s companions were silent. For all their brawling, they had never known a true war before. They downed their flagons. One belched. Then they burst into uproarious laughter, clapping each other on the back. This was it. They followed Gala into their stomping grounds, all banging on the doors of taverns and inns and houses, calling out the names of other gangs just as their leader did. Within an hour Gala had hundreds of Dwarves, as well as a dozens of Shadowkin rebels, and even the odd Sylvan Elf looking to her, wondering what in the name of all Skyiron they were doing there. Standing on an upturned bucket on an abandoned, wheel-less cart, Gala addressed the rabble. Skyiron was marching to save Yakai. They were all going with them. Though there were a few grumbles about the good old days of Dwarven isolation, the response was almost entirely jubilant. Dawnlanders cried and danced, fresh barrels of ale were cracked open, and smiths were mobbed as all around demanded weapons and armor. There was going to be a lot of good fighting, and a lot of good treasure. War promised opportunity for all. United for the first time by common purpose, Gala and her host did not even wait for the armies to depart before marching for the Dawnlands. Clad in mismatched armor, wielding an assortment of patchwork weapons, and fueled as much by ale as by common sense, Gala’s unruly battalion paraded out of the Skyiron Dominion, singing proud songs of the glorious victory that was surely to come. This was to be the greatest fight of Gala's life, and she would make sure it was one to remember. Little did she know just how many of her comrades she would have to remember burying.