The Basics

Name: Sylvanus Brutus
Nicknames: Smiley, "Silas", The Mule
Gender: Male
Age: 40
Race: Human
Class: Warrior

In The Mirror

Height: 6'1''
Weight: 245 Lbs
Hair Color: Black
Eye Color: Grey
Appearance:

Some men are giants. You look up to them because you don't have a choice and you move out the way when they pass because they're sure as hell not stopping, and Silas has been a giant since he was two feet tall. There are bigger men, and heavier, but they're few and far between and not a one of 'em's half the hitter Silas is. Not a thing on him gives an inch from his steel-shod feet to his squared off chin, and if you don't like it you, you can kiss it. Broad as a doorway, Silas doesn't try to capitalize on his bulk because he doesn't need to. You'll see him in blacks, greys and whites in the kind of clothes you can pick up anywhere--cotton tunics with the sleeves rolled up past forearms the size of an elf's thigh, dark trousers, heavy work boots. Black longcoats lined with metal and heavy enough to bring a grown man to the floor. A hat to keep the rain off his head or tuck over his eyes for a nap, but no matter how dressed down he thinks he's rolling there's never a doubt in anyone's mind that this was a man built for blood.

Silas is a sculpture of the old tradition, the ones carved roughshod from stone and built to last. You can still see the hammer-blow genetics at work in his strong, square jaw, his sharp cheekbones, his thin-lipped, too-wide mouth. Without jowls or softness or extra skin, there is something solid about him that is hard to find elsewhere, but if you asked him his favorite feature (and actually got him to answer) he'd admit that he's awful proud of his hands. Big for his size, meaty with muscle and rife with little scars from use, his mitts are like everything else about him--rough and powerful, and he likes it that way. Hands say a lot about a man, and Silas' do an awful lot more talking than he does.

He has scars, same as any. Less than you might think, more than most. The one at his lip, where a miner in Tevinter shattered a bottle over his face, is the most noticeable but he doesn't seem to mind. He has tattoos, too, but not many people see them. The few that peak out, crawling up his forearms, are the more vicious Andrastian versus in dark, crabby lettering.

Beneath The Surface

Bakers bake bread. They wake up Maker only knows how early, every damn day, and bake bread. They bake loaves of rye or wheat or sourdough, they dust it with flour or oats or this or that. They burn their hands on their ovens and swear when they do. They lather, rince and repeat this every morning, every day, for the rest of their lives, until they die. To Silas, there isn't much difference between a baker and a soldier.

Only it's a soldier's job to make corpses, not bread. Not that different.

Silas is so angry he doesn't know how not to be anymore. It sunk in marrow-deep early and festered like sepsis, just as sick and just as ugly. He's mad at Tevinter for what it's brought good people to, he's mad at the revolting slaves because of what they've become, and he's mad at himself because in the end he knows better than to think he's any different. You spend your life fighting monsters and one day you wake up and see one in the mirror, and that's the realization that scared Silas halfway to hell (and he doesn't scare easy). It's a hard thing to wake up one day and realize that all you see around you is filth, that you don't believe in decent people anymore, but it happened. As far as he's concerned, the Blight is the best thing that could have happened to him--give him something so fucking Evil that he can enjoy who he is, that he doesn't have to hold back anymore, and all of a sudden things get an awful lot simpler. The fact that it comes with a death sentence is just icing on the cake.

In truth, Silas isn't a bad man. It'd be so much easier if he was, but even now he can't stand to see someone strong pick on someone weak for the fun of it. He doesn't know how to live a life where he doesn't kick the teeth out of every asshole who pulled a knife on a man instead of worked for his damn living just like he doesn't know how not to push back harder. If you can catch him at a good moment, or if he honestly believes you're one of the good guys, he eases up. He's a surprisingly gentle hand with women and children, and in his downtime he carves little sculptures, whittles himself some lovely woodwork.

He tries not to talk about it.

What Makes Me Special

Specializations: Reaver, Demo

Weapons

7:12
A "sawed off" shotgun, Andraste 7:12 is Silas' favorite. Lever-actioned with a reinforced stock and grip, the weapon takes a lickin' and keeps on tickin' and is Silas' last line of defense. Loaded as it is with his custom made explosive shot, by the time someone gets close enough for him to use it they'd best have done their praying--there's not usually much left but a finger or some teeth, a thought that makes Silas all warm inside.

Benedictions
A big gun. A big damn gun. One of Tevinter's answers to the question of fire superiority, the Benedictions series heavy-repeater is a dwarven made gatling gun that held back the darkspawn assault on Orzammar long enough to evacuate most of the cities' population. Most would consider it a mounted turret, and with its tripod bracing on the bottom its certainly well-used as one, but most people also don't have Silas' strength. It's big, heavy, unwieldy and takes a while to get set up, but once it's up and rolling it can turn any mid-ranged battlefield into an abattoir for as long as it has ammunition.

Pride
Named for the pride the Tevinter weaponsmiths had in their arms or in irony of the revolting slaves, depending on who you ask, the Pride series repeaters are well-kept repeating rifles that do their job and do it well. Silas' only true precision weapon, it doesn't have the flash of the 7:12 or the raw power of Benedictions, but in many ways that makes it more dangerous. With enough power to punch through a chevalier's armor at range and enough accuracy to shoot where you point it, Silas' has seen hardened veterans sob in the mud after being brought low by proper Tevinter marksmen.

Hammer
It's a war-hammer. One handed, ready to bloody up someone who gets to close. The pick on the rear can punch through armor or haul a chevalier off his horse, the business end can crush a skull or take off a jaw without the bat of an eye. No, it doesn't have a bloody name--who names a hammer?

Strengths

As a Damn Ox - Silas is strong. Really strong. He's stopped charging qunari in their tracks, ripped turrets from their placements and tossed aside men like kindling. They call him the Mule because once upon a time, when the supply wagon's trusty steed went down, Silas took up its charge without missing a beat.

Hold the Line - Silas is tough. Really tough. Even if he's not on the front lines in the shield wall not a man alive can knock him down and Maker help you for trying. Blessed is the man who tries to break through Silas--or he'd better be.

Just Makin' him Mad - Silas doesn't mind pain. Or blood. He's had enough of both, and all it does these days is piss him off. There's also something...not quite right about him. He goes on longer than he should, gets worse the more he's hurt. There's stories of reavers, sure, but when you really see one you...well. You don't really want to see one.

Heavy Weapons Guy - Big enough to hold them, strong enough to wield them, Silas' is a heavy weapons man through and through. You can keep your fancy little pistols or your pop-shot bolt actions, Silas' likes things with a bit more bang for their buck. Or more than a bit, really. Well versed in the war uses of lyrium, you'll know when Silas joins a fight when things go all to pieces. Literally.

One Man's Cheat... - ...is another man's tactics. Silas' is used to fighting outnumbered if not necessarily outgunned, and he fights like a bastard. Sure he likes drawing the battle lines from where he's standing, but when push comes to shove he knows full well that a toppled tower or a burried satchel of lyrium rigged to blow will even odds an awful lot faster than warcries.

Weaknesses

When All You Have is a Hammer... - ...everything looks like a nail, and Silas was born with two hammers. They're called his fists. It's not that he's dumb so much as he's direct--he fixes problems by getting rid of them, solves fights by finishing them. If you didn't want one, that was your problem.

Big Man, Big Target - As established, Silas' isn't subtle. When he's on the field, you'll notice him--and if you're smart, you'll deal with him. He's not the easiest man to take down but by the Maker you'll want to, and every man has his limits.

Temper, Temper... - Call it the dragon in him, call it a hard knock life, whatever it is it's a bad temper. It's not hard to piss Silas off, and if he's pissed off it's not hard to get him to start swinging. He's a good tactician, but in the heat of battle when the bullets are flying and the blood is up you should stick to the plan and not to him--he's as likely as not to charge in and get messy as he is to hold his ground.

Hold the Goddamn Line - Silas doesn't retreat. If you want him to leave a fight unfinished you better be goddamn dying.

A Little Thing Called Decency - On a battlefield, Silas' isn't what you call scrupulous. Off of it, or once the killing's over, a man has to have standards. He doesn't like to kill women and he doesn't like to kill children, and he doesn't like letting others do it either. Of course, with his temper...

Skeletons In The Closet

Once, a lifetime ago, Silas was going to be a baker.

Growing up in Tevinter during the very beginning of the slave revolts wasn't easy, but he got by. A big kid from a middling Soporati family, Silas was one of the people that everyone forgets exists in the Imperium--the normal ones. The kind that wake up every day and bake like Silas' parents did. They weren't mages, they weren't rich, they weren't even really poor. They were just...people.

He had all the pitfalls and pleasures of childhood that anyone does. He ran with the local kids and threw apples at the slaves and didn't cry when he skinned his knees because boys don't cry. The whispers of revolution didn't mean a thing to him, and his family kept their heads down and did their jobs. Rich, poor, slave or magister, everyone eats and everyone eats bread, so Silas' family scraped by the way they always had. His brother, several years older than he, became a Legionnaire after a messy fight with his father about it. Words were thrown, as was a fist or two considering whose family it was, but all Silas remembered about it was watching both men cry and feeling embarrassed and sad.

He didn't want to be a legionnaire. He didn't really want much of anything, really, except to not have to be the one to clean out the ovens and maybe get that Cassia girl from down the road to kiss him on more than the cheek. Having just learned how to get the perfect amount of rye in the dough and keep the oats on the top from burning, life was looking up for young Silas before the slaves really revolted and everything went to Hell.

What is there to say? It was a revolt. No one thought it would be bloodless, but if they knew how it was going to go down then they deserved exactly what happened to them. It wasn't slaves versus magisters, it wasn't Legionnaires versus slaves, it was bedlam. Bullets shattered windows and lives, firebombs burned out buildings with families' like Silas'. Elves picked up hammers and axes and fucking kitchen knives and took the fight to anyone without pointed ears, fathers knocked down anyone that tried to walk through their doors. That's what Silas' father did, at least, until an elf that could barely shave pulled out a stolen revolver and blew him away.

What happened after that was mostly a blur as far as Silas is concerned. He remembers turning that elf's face into a smear on the cobblestones, and seeing broken teeth, and that the only way to keep everyone safe was to be so goddamn terrifying that no one would dare come near him and his. By the time the Legionnaires showed up and put the riot down properly it took two of them to get him to the ground and one of them didn't walk straight for a week afterwards. His parents were dead, his younger sister couldn't look at him anymore, and his tolerable little world was gone. No more kisses from Cassia.

At least they broke the damn oven.

He could probably have joined the Legionnaires, but he didn't. They were the official response, the last ones to the fight, and that wasn't good enough for Silas. There was that awful something inside that bashing that poor elf's head in woke up, and the only way to shut it up was by busting more heads. In the new Imperium that was reacting to the growing slave revolt the Praesumptors, yesterday's shadowy band of thieves and thugs, became strikebreakers and merchant security, and they had all kinds of use for a man with an axe to grind. That was Silas' life for the last...well, until the Warden showed up, really.

He'd done some things by then. Some really bad things. He'd killed and killed and...well. Killed some more. If the dragon inside him wasn't done with it all then Silas was--you can only fight an enemy for just so long without learning about them, and Silas wasn't stupid. These were poor people in a poor situation being ground down by an empire who couldn't get off their fat asses to treat them decently long enough to keep themselves from getting knifed by their chambermaid. And he was killing them, in droves, because he was too stupid to think of anything else to do.

It ended like all those stories do. He and a squad of strikebreakers were holding the line for a merchant family as they escaped their mine with whatever they could load up on the cart when there were just...too many of them. He fought hard, did his damage, but in the end they brought him and his down and started the executions. His companions snapped and snarled, 'you filth' this and 'long live the Imperium' that, but Silas just stared. Burned a hole in the ground with his eyes. Even if he didn't hate the slaves anymore, he sure hated that they could go on about freedom when they killed free families because some wizards in their fucking towers were too hard to hit.

Then she came along. She was an elf, like most of the others, but also more than that. He could see it in her eyes that this wasn't her war, that this was child's play to what was going to come. When she knelt down and looked at him, and told him he could die from a pickax or die killing darkspawn--the real monsters--it wasn't a hard choice.