In another life, Adarun would have been a Shaper, would have married a respectable noble and born him children, and she would never have left Orzammar. And had she not met a Grey Warden and heard of the mysteries of the surface, she'd have never seen the sun. Curiosity tempted her to the world above and locked the gates of Orzammar behind her.

After a few months topside, Adarun fell in with the Coterie and spent the next several years lending her sharp mind and blades to the pursuit of profit. The Breach was The Absolute Worst--after growing impatient with the surface's rather Dwarven politicking, Adarun answered the Inquisition's call at first word. At least someone is trying to fix shit.

Compact, yet dense with muscle, Adarun is surprisingly nimble. She wears her pale blonde hair shaved close on the left and in a practical bob. Her skin is pale and rather prone to burns and freckling. A thin scar bisects her face below blue eyes. Adarun has a rather bad case of resting bitch face, and a fondness for Dwarven jewelry.

Leigh was born to a Seer of great esteem in Afsaana, the youngest of four. He spent his childhood at his mother's robes, learning from the wisdom of the spirits she channeled as he fumbled with magic. He chased after his siblings, exploring the docks and the valleys of Rivain. His fascination with martial magic was encouraged by his mentors in the Circle. Dairsmuid's leniency allowed him to accompany mercenaries at sea, where he further honed his combative magic. Leigh's grandmother, a pillar of Afsaana's community, arranged his marriage to a fellow mage, Renee. He settled down and took on apprentices in the Circle.

No one expected the Divine to annul Dairsmuid. The Templars hunted and slew men and women he had spent his whole life learning alongside, even going so far as to imprison those in the community that harbored them. This sparked outrage in Rivain and talks of war in the nobility. When news of the Conclave arrived, Rivaini's royalty assembled an envoy to attend. Renee was one of the few Dairsmuid survivors to accompany their diplomats, charged with bringing the injustice of their annulment--and Rivain's willingness to go to war over the slaughter-- to Conclave. Their envoy did not survive the explosion.

Infuriated, Leigh and several of his remaining countrymen went West, determined to find answers and revenge. Leigh was swept up in the mage rebellion and baffled to find a world where mages were feared. News of the Inquisition has reached many of the rebel mages, and Leigh is cautiously considering joining their forces. After all, they seem to be the only power willing to oppose the Templars that butchered his people.

Leigh is a tall, swarthy man, with calloused hands from his youth at sea. With crows feet forming at the corners of his pale eyes, he is beginning to show the exhaustion of the past two years. Significantly tattooed and pierced in the customs of the Rivaini, he cuts a striking figure in Fereldan. Leigh carries a heavily decorated staff, with rough hunks of minerals, feathers, and gold inlay crafted lovingly into an impressive arcane focus.

Denerim was a bit of a shit place to grow up. By the time she reached seventeen, Orielle had already survived a purge, Tevinter slavers, the Fifth Blight, and a bout of pneumonia. The Alienage was decidedly worse for the wear, and while the rest of the city was quickly rebuilt, her home was mostly left to rot.

Orielle was not having any of that. Nicking a bow from unattended wares, she made her way to the Pearl and forced her way into the employ of the Blackstone Irregulars.

Which, surprisingly, worked.

Mercenary life was a hell of a lot better than sitting around the Alienage, waiting to get married off. Having coin and freedom for the first time in her life was strange as shite, but absolutely brilliant. Having enough food to eat was worth every job staining her hands red for the highest bidder.

Of course, then the Conclave happened. The world was back on the brink of ending.

Not this shit again.

At least this end of days brought work with it. The Irregulars journeyed west, hired to protect a caravan of supplies meant for Haven. Several of their number made their goodbyes and signed on with the burgeoning Inquisition. Orielle hadn’t meant to join up—but she’d seen the scores of demons decimating the country side, and she couldn’t help but remember being fifteen and hiding from darkspawn. How could she not?

On the tall side for an elven woman, Orielle is best described as lanky. Despite having put on some much needed weight, her cheeks are still just a little too hollow, her features sharpened from years of near-starvation. Despite this, there’s something sickeningly sweet about her—doe eyed and incapable of scowling, Orielle seems out of place on the battlefield. The flowers she likes to weave into her dark braid don’t help her case.