BACKGROUND
Birthed among the carnage of the Day of Mourning, Jon saw only fire and chaos upon awakening. Disjointed memories of pain and sorrow clouded his mind the moment he became conscious, memories from a time when he had blood in his veins and breath in his chest.
Jon awoke amid the ruins of some kind of workshop in Cyre, hours after the fires of the Day of Mourning had destroyed countless lives. The only clue to his past life lay in a small journal, labelled Iron Legion, which he has kept to this very day. The journal detailed the procedure he had undergone, from dying soldier to a prototypal new weapon for the people of his homeland. To transfer the living essence, the very soul of a dying warrior into the hardened steel frame of a Warforged was a bold idea, and one that may very well have turned the tides of the war in Cyre’s favour.
Jon has no recollection of his personal life; no knowledge of his name, rank or whether or not he had a family. He remembered the feel of a sword in his hand, and the blistering ache of a fiery explosion but his memories of his personal life elude him. Visions plague him at night, but trying to hold onto them feels like clutching at smoke.
Jon left the workshop with nothing but the journal in hand. Wandering aimlessly amid the unfamiliar ruins of the land he once called home left a deep despair within him. He searched countless ruins surrounding the workshop, hoping to find some kind of clue as to who he really was. After months of searching to no avail, he gave up. With only his journal and a blade claimed from the charred body of a fallen soldier, he left the Mournlands and travelled West into Breland where he has spent the last few years in contemplation.
A chance encounter at a rural farmstead offered him the chance to put his memories of swordcraft to use once more, where he routed a group of brigands who were hassling the young farmer and his family. In return for his kindness, he was rewarded with friendship and something he had longed for since his awakening; a name.
DESCRIPTION
Jon Irons appears to be a warforged. His hulking frame stands at 6’2”, and his eyes are bright viridescent green. Armour plates of darkwood and polished iron adorn his body. He carries a heavy blade in a plain leather sheath on his back, wears a roughly spun cloak of grey wool.
PERSONALITY
Jon is a quiet being. His humility stems from a lack of confidence in who he really is, and the years he spent wandering the wilds of Breland alone with his thoughts took a toll on his mind. He longs for camaraderie, and is fiercely protective of those who would call him friend.
MOTIVATION
Jon spent years trying to find out who he was before becoming a part of the Iron Legion project. Searching his memories and the wastes of the Mournlands proved futile, and in the years following Jon decided that his amnesia may indeed be a blessing. He was afforded a fresh start, free of the grief which faced many of the other veterans of the war and Cyran refugees. Jon is motivated by a desire to belong, and he is torn between leaving his past behind or trying to reclaim his humanity.
SHORT STORY – “WHAT’S IN A NAME?”
The orange glow of the setting sun washed over the Brelish countryside as a solitary figure marched stoically down a grassy knoll. His heavy frame left deep prints in the soft soil, each step accompanied by the soft hydraulic clicks and whirs of his joints. His unblinking viridescent eyes glowed brightly as he surveyed the clearing below, spying a small farmhouse half a mile away illuminated by the light of a single lantern. A shadowy group of people stood at the threshold to the home, yelling in disagreement to some unknown fact when suddenly a bloodcurdling scream pierced the air. One of the shadows lashed out, striking another to the ground. Something stirred within the solitary figure, and almost instinctively he began sprinting toward the house.
“NOOOO! PLEASE, STOP!!!” The woman screamed as two burly men in worn leather armour lay savage kick after kick into her husband’s unconscious form. “Lay off the shrieking aw’right? We just gotta teach ‘im a lesson. He’ll be fine once you pay us our fees, so I reckon you’d best go get your coin purse,” the smallest of the three interlopers yawned in reply. The woman fell to her knees sobbing, tears streaming down her face. The leader of the brigands approached her, grabbing her wrists and hoisting her to her feet before slamming her into the doorframe. “Where is the MONEY,” he growled with a bestial expression, when the mechanical figure burst from the darkness.
“This….isn’t…right…” he spoke for the first time in years, his voice echoing with metallic tones. Before the men could muster a reply to his sudden appearance, the iron stranger sprung into action. Rushing forward, he drove his massive fist into the jaw of the larger of the two men who had been kicking the farmer, splintering the bone with a sickening crack. The second thug fumbled with a long knife sheathed at his belt as his friend fell, and the stranger turned to face this new threat. Grabbing the thug behind the head with both hands, he drove his knee up as he wrenched downward. The thug collapsed, his bloodied nose splayed across his face. As the stranger spun to deal with the brigand leader, he felt a strange sensation in his chest.
The Brigand leader was brandishing a Warhammer, the rear head of which was a wicked spike. As the stranger looked down, he saw a gaping hole in his chest. The spike had driven straight through his armour plating, and an oily black fluid was beginning to leak out of it. His vision blurred, but his mind was clear of pain as he drew the massive sword which was sheathed on his back. The brigand spoke, his words lost on failing iron ears as the stranger approached him. He thrust the sword, piercing the brigand through the stomach. He saw blood, then darkness took him…..
The stranger awoke days later; a makeshift patch had been placed over his wound and he was propped up on a thick wooden table inside the barn. “I’m no smithy; I did my best to fix that hole but you’ll probably want to get it looked at before you go scrapping again. I’m Pawl, and I owe you my life. What do they call you?” a voice asked, and as the stranger turned to face the barn doors he saw the battered farmer. “I…don’t know,” he confessed. “You don’t know? All you warforged at least have a number of something don’t you?” the farmer enquired, an expression of confusion etched upon his face. “That’s the thing though, I’m not sure I am one…..” the stranger began. Soon he found himself sharing his story with the farmer, each and every detail from the moment he had awoken to when he had reached the farm. Pawl sat in respective silence, acknowledging the stranger’s need to share what had happened.
“So, you’re all that’s left of this Iron Legion huh? Legion…Lee-jon…,” the farmer asked after a long few minutes of silence. You’ll be called Jon then, I think. Yep, that’s it; Jon Irons.” Pawl beamed, impressed at his sudden flair of creativity. “Come then Jon Irons, lets introduce you to my family.” As the two figures left the barn, a flicker of warmth spread inside the metallic frame of Jon Irons.
