Also Known As: Broodius, Lord Broodius, Lord Wrath, the Emperor's Wrath, the Empire's Wrath
|Homeworld:||[unknown; in the Imperial coreworlds]|
|Pronouns:||[Imperial Strd. 3rd pronouns; Rep. Strd. she/her]|
|Eyes:||golden (originally brown; occaisionally brown, orange, or red)|
|Weapons:||lightsaber, the Force, Force choke, Force lightning|
|Position:||the Emperor's Wrath|
|Dislikes:||incompetence, cruelty without due cause|
Living on Korriban from the age of seven until becoming apprenticed to Darth Baras, Irati has been unable to speak since early childhood, and has no memory of the circumstances that led to her arriving on Korriban. Her contant irritation with everyone and everything around her, along with her inability to speak her own name, led to her being universally nicknamed 'Broodius'. Now, years later, she has carved a place for herself in the Empire, one where she is called Wrath, not Broodius. She is married to Malavai Quinn, (with whom she many shared passions, including for killing abusers and for battle strategy). She lives partially on Dromund Kaas, but is often deployed elsewhere in her ship, Strength. Irati's primary form of communication is with gestures and very eloquent facial expressions, but when she absolutely has to communicate something complex clearly, she types on a datapad.
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She pointed to her chest. Then, she gathered up all her rage, every cruel word ever said to her, every horrific thing she’d seen and not been listened to about, every time she’d decided to stop trying, every thing she had wanted to strike back, and pushed it out throughout the room.
Every Sith Lord felt it, sat back or forward in her chairs as they were struck by the pure strength and depth and breadth of her anger, and what she was prepared to do about it.
I am Wrath.
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I’m a prisoner of language that doesn’t have a letter or a sign or gesture that approximates what I’m sensing. Rage may be one of the few things that binds or connects me to you, to our preinvented world. — David Wojnarowicz, Postcards from America
Do not imagine, because I am silent, that I am not present, and alive, to all that is going on. — Samuel Beckett, from The Collected Shorter Plays
Sometimes you embrace anger, because…because it’s warm, when all around you turns cold. —Laura Purcell, The Corset