Name:Rannon Bryce

Age: 32

Race: Human

Mage?: No

Place of Origin: Fereldan, Ironbrook

Appearance: Rannon stands tall and solidly built, with earthy brown hair, long enough to be tied at the base of his neck. His eyes are reminiscent of shaped wrought iron. His face now only echoes his youthful appearance, battles and years having roughed him into the look of a mature, even veteran soldier. Two scars mar his face. One parallel to the bottom of his left eye, and another scraping across his right jawline. His legs are long and his his facial hair is only a coarse shadow thanks to his knife. He's clad in fine and tough leather over a chainmail hauberk, with sturdy traveling shoes and a worn belt.

Personality: Rannon seems to be the epitome of the Ferelden ideal. His fierce independence and rough nature can only be matched by his loyalty to those he deems worthy. He has a deep seated national pride and sees the world as Ferelden does, taking others and judging them by their deeds rather than their blood. Years in the army and surviving pivotal battles have tempered his recklessness, but never fully. Learning the sword and how to work within ranks of his fellows showed him how to pick his movements and his battles, though he always seems to be ready for another scrap. That is to say, he will never fight for the sake of fighting and appreciates the quiet when he can salvage some. Only that he feels the world is forever dangerous, and won't be made soft or be fooled by the 8 years of relative peace that have settled over the land. He's pragmatic and won't hesitate to use the landscape or offhanded strikes to defeat an opponent, though if he is openly challenged he will honor it and see it to the end. He often likes thinking of what ifs and battle scenarios as he travels the. The warrior tends to be very self critical of himself and his decisions, and he takes the actions he makes very seriously.
Rannon respects Dwarves, the tales of quarreling Nobles in Orzammar not registering to him from the above-ground fighters he has seen. Oddly enough, he does not blame mages for who they are or what they practice, though he is still very wary around them. Templars he's on the fence, for while they do a valuable service in protecting civilization from rampant magic, they're still oppressors. He has a special distrust for the Orlesians and the Tevinter Imperium. Quanari he sees has little better than Darkspawn unless shown otherwise, from the tales he's heard in Starkhaven, and his blade never tires of spilling Darkspawn blood. Elves are a mystery to him, never knowing if they are trustworthy and simply wish independence like his fellow Fereldans, or if they truly are the cause of the Brecilian Forest's cursed nature. He has an intense respect for Ash warriors and canines, thinking himself far from good enough for his hound's attention. He's always dreamed of joining the Grey Wardens, but never sought them out.

Backstory: Rannon was born under the Arl of Southreach, in the village of Ironbrook. He was born only 8 days before from the holiday Funalis. His father worked as a craftsman of leather, and his mother grew wild herbs for medicinal purposes just outside the village, though always in sight of the walls. He was the oldest of three, all boys. His brothers were Edmund (2 years younger) and Wilfrid (4 years younger), and he was often charged with keeping them safe and out of trouble, though he played the role of protector more often than his parents believed. He would get into fights and chases with other boys around his age over his brother's wild nature and sometimes even his own. He didn't mind though, and grew to see it as a competition he could always get better in. It was further driven home with his father, for he'd share tales of the Alamarri driving back to Tevinter Imperium to Rannon if he did a fine job helping with his father's shop that day. He was drawn in, and pride for his nation and his town bloomed within his heart. The fact that his village bordered the cursed wilds furthered that line of thinking.
When he came of age, he went off to serve as a Soldier for the Arl. His tendency to swing first and ask questions later was partially beaten out of him from his Knight trainer, Arlun. He even attempted to fight the Knight at one point, which led to a nasty welt on his forehead from his sword hilt. Among the soldiers, jests were sometimes made at Leonas Bryland for his half Orlesian ancestry, but it was just that, a jest. They never questioned their Arl or his loyalty, all knowing full well that he followed Prince Maric in the Fereldan Rebellion. Rannon aquired some companions of his own, a few of the fellow trainees, Aart, Gavin, Leopuld, and Rochen. Many times they would joke at each others expense and talk the night away until wearied limbs and bruised muscles dragged them into slumber. He was then allowed to go home when he reached 21, provided he would return for service if called. He traveled back to Ironbrook and worked for his father, making saddles and leather coats, even learning how to ride a horse a bit from a particular favor he gave for a free saddle.
He was called though, nearing his 24th birthday. The fifth blight had begun, and Rannon went straight into Arl Bryland's ranks, joining with his friends and then being initiated into King Cailan's ranks. The calm before the storm was almost too much for many soldiers among the torn buildings of Ostagar. Darkspawn being monsters from legend and their camp being at the cusp of the Korcari wilds was a new thing to many commoners. To Rannon it was no different than dealing with rumors of monsters from the Brecilian, and he marveled more at the Ash Warriors and their magnificent Mabaris. Still, he could feel the his mettle rising with each day, until that fateful night at the Battle of Ostagar. Cailan's strategy seemed almost flawless, the way the horde advanced in such a mindless charge. But even watching the monsters themselves was almost too much for him, and he didn't think he could find the strength to swing his sword.
That is, until the battle commenced. His fear left him, finding when the blood began to shed, one was too busy to think of fear. He hacked and stabbed, carving through a small number of darkspawn and hoping the blood in his mouth was his own. Sweat and grime was rampant, and the shrieks were almost defeaning. He did not know how long the battle lasted or how much he fought, but eventually he found himself one amid a mere few hundred scattered soldiers against the Darkspawn ranks. He heard the horns, and knew the battle would turn with the reinforcements set in motion. But as they fought on, it dawned on him as it did on every soldier. No one was coming. He wiped the blood from the cut across his chin, and as his vision unblurred he saw a open-eyed Gavin being stabbed repeatedly, his friend's body already cold as three Darkspawn made sport of his corpse. He steeled himself and ran forward, Leopuld and Rochen with him. He didn't know where Aart was, and he would never find out. Rochen fell with a split skull, trying to avenge Gavin. Leopuld and Rannon were the only one's left standing, until more monsters charged in. They backpeddled, their swords leading to fend off the cruel blades of their enemies and swiftly counter attack with fierce thrusts, working in practiced concert. They began to retreat in full, until Leopuld was struck in the hip with an arrow. He fell, and Rannon stopped, reaching down to help him up.
"You have to go!" Leopuld told him, and Rannon looked between him and the advancing terrors. His friend saw the look in Rannon's eye. Again Leopuld told him to run, but Rannon almost charged. He would have charged.
He should have charged...
He fled, using his long legs and making his way up a rocky outcropping and into the ruins of Ostagar, knowing the only way he could survive was if the Darkspawn played with the corpses of his friends. And the fact that he lived to tell the tale was testament to that. Still he heard their shrieks, and tumbled out of the worn out architecture towards the northern woodlands, making his way into the unknown. By morning he found himself in a small path made by passing beasts, stopping his march by stamping his boot in the ground and hitting a tree with his shoulder, stubbornly. It took him a moment to realize he was being watched, and he turned to regard the young Mabari warhound staring at him not seven paces away. He held his sword before him, until he realized just how stupid he was. If this Mabari saw fit to kill him, why should he stop it? He planted his blade into the ground and slunk down. Instead the beast approached and sat, mirroring him. It panted and looked at him, and Rannon asked what it was doing here. It popped up and jumped from side to side, the dog spry and full of youth. It then dawned on the soldier, and he shook his head as his heart quivered. How could he lose all of his friends in one night, and receive the companionship of this noble canine the next? What world did he live in?
He didn't know whether to laugh or cry, and since all laughter had been ripped out of him the night before, he fell to the ground and wept. Why would this dog think him good enough? He had run. Dirt and tears stained his face, and when he lifted his head he half expected the canine to be gone. But it sat there, expectantly.
Rannon grabbed ahold of his new friend's shoulder muscles and hauled himself up. They traveled northward together, the Mabari hunting for their food and Rannon following the streams for water. Rannon named him Gideon, fit for the warrior he knew his new friend to be. But still, he felt unworthy for such a comrade. He would have liked to think it was his family's sake that kept him going, to go and warn them. But it was his hatred fueled vengeance for Loghain and the Darkspawn that drove him. He wouldn't abandon his loved ones, though. He made it to Ironbrook within a fortnight and took his family further northwards. Already pandemonium had wracked Fereldan, and refugees poured forth through the roads, bandits running amok. Rannon and his father thought it smart to travel near the brink of the Brecilian, and for awhile it was a sound idea. Until the third night, when Rannon lost his mother. He had set his own watch, his hound watching the tail end of the small encampment when he heard it. It was an eerie, ominous moan that seeped into the camp. But it sounded like it was made by a lost woman, not a hungry beast, and that was itself unnerving. The wind began to shift, and the moan grew louder pitch by pitch, a very mortal chill running up Rannon's spine. His brothers had awoken, but his parents at the north western edge had not seemed to have heard anything. And then a terrible rip was heard, followed by the scream of their mother, until her voice was torn away as if she had never been. His father would later say she was simply pulled out of the tent by something he couldn't see, but Rannon and his Mabari ran into the woods where she was last heard, confused as to where to even look. Seconds passed, and her scream was heard again to the east, but faint, as if she had been taken a great distance away by something as swift as a hawk.
He made his way towards the noise, despite the dark canopy and underbrush that held a thousand potential horrors, despite him tripping over gnarled roots and jutting rocks. He wouldn't flee again. Not now!
All he found was a torn piece of cloth from her nightshirt, covered in warm blood not a mile away. Even Gideon had lost the scent, and it was the longest night of Rannon's life. Another month later, he defended his father and brothers against bandits on the road to Denerim, being hit in the shoulder by an arrow and receiving the slicing scar below his left eye from a knife. Their mother had taught Wilfrid, the youngest, how to treat battle wounds, and he did the best he could. However the shoulder still aches in the mornings to this day. As the war progressed, all save Rannon believed going to the free marches was the best thing to do. It was the safest course, but he'd be damned if he didn't stay. He didn't care if it was the Qunari, the Imperium or the Darkspawn. This was Fereland, a kingdom that he'd die to protect. He rejoined Arl Bryland in the short lived Fereldan civil war, also participating in the brief but pivotal battle of Denerim. The harsh red sky and roars of the Archdemon still echo within his mind. After the war, he rejoined his family for two years in Starkhaven, meeting new people and getting a feel for other cultures. Before long however, he found himself slowly getting more and more drunk, more and more frequently, with women he couldn't recall the names of. It wasn't a fit thing to be, and Gideon seemed to think so too, head butting him one morning hard enough for him to lose his dinner on the street.
Fereldan was his home, and he went back and continued to serve as a soldier and patrolman for Bryland with his faithful hound. The past year was the first time he had left the service, having decided to join the Grey Wardens as a mercenary. Secretly he would be honored to be invited into that famed group of Darkspawn slayers, but for now merely fighting for them was all he could hope and ask for. He found out why he was hired soon after, for the Darkspawn had returned...


Notable items:
Two Handed Sword: In many ways it mirrors its wielder. Sharp, powerful, but bloodstained and notched from use.
Long Knife: He wears in his right boot.
Necklace of beads: Green and woven meticulously by his late mother.