The Fifth Blight
When the Fifth Blight broke out, the youngest son of the noble Cousland Family of Ferelden, a talented warrior, found his family slain by treachery, and was conscripted into the Grey Wardens. During his quest to stop the Blight he installed Behlen as King of Orzammar, prevented the Ferelden Circle of Mages from being wiped out, avenged his family, deposed the traitor Loghain, helped Alistair become the King of Ferelden, and became the Commander of the Grey after successfully stopping the Blight and surviving, thanks to the help of a little black ritual.

The Grey Schism
The fact that the Warden Commander of Ferelden was best friends with King Alistair, who was once himself a fellow Warden, meant the Grey Wardens of Ferelden shared a close bond with the people and politics of Ferelden. Before the Warden Commander vanished in pursuit of a cure for the Calling, leaving the Wardens in the hands of a trusted Acting Commander, he had reforged the Wardens under him from an army devoted solely to killing Darkspawn, to an order devoted to protecting the innocent and powerless. The Wardens of the Weishaupt considered this to be a violation of the Warden's vaunted neutrality and after receiving several demands and veiled threats from the First Warden of Weishaupt, the Warden Commander of Ferelden cut off all contact with their Northern Brothers, declaring the Southern Grey Warden's independence.

The Champion of Kirkwall
Forced to flee Ferelden during the Fifth Blight. The woman who would come to be known as The Champion, settled in the Free Marches city of Kirkwall. Here she embarked on many adventures, but none quite so earth shaking as the destruction of the Chantry. Knight Commander Meredith's mistreatment of the Mages under her custody had created a powder-keg just waiting for someone to strike a match. A mage named Anders, a close friend of the Champion, was the one to set it all off. He destroyed the Kirkwall Chantry, bringing the confrontation between Mages and Templars to a head. When Meredith called for all Mages in the city to be put to the sword, the Champion leapt to their defence. A mage herself, she simply couldn't stand by and allow this injustice to pass. When it turned out that Meredith had gone mad from Red Lyrium, The Champion defeated her, ending her rampage. Despite his crimes, the Champion was unable to kill Anders, instead she demanded he leave Kirkwall and never return. But the damage had been done, and the Mage-Templar war began not long after.

The Inquisition and the Breach
When a Conclave held by the Divine at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, in an attempt to broker peace between Mages and Templars, was destroyed. Only one person survived a young Elven woman and Mage named Lavellan. She became leader of the Inquisition, using her Mark to seal the Rifts into the Fade opened by the destruction of the Conclave. Her investigations into what had caused the destruction of the Conclave led her to Corypheus, an ancient Tevinter Magister and one of the first Darkspawn. Inquisitor Lavellan saved the Rebel Mages from Corypheus' Ventori, accepting them as free allies, and crushed the Red Templars. She finally defeated Corypheus and sealed the Breach in the sky, leaving just a scar of light to remind the world how close it had come to annihilation. In the aftermath of Corypheus' defeat, the Inquisition's Spymaster, Leliana, was elected as the new Divine, taking the name Divine Victoria. She set about rebuilding the Chantry from the ground up, changing it into a place that welcomed all races with open arms, giving the Mages the freedom they had fought so hard for and righting past wrongs. Her earnest compassion quickly won over any opponents that might have stood in her way. As for the Inquisition, under Levellan they set about reforging the shattered Templars and Seekers of Truth. Who better than a Mage to understand the dangers of Magic. Lavellan was determined that the Inquisition would forever guard the world against the dangers of Magic, without becoming oppressors.

Name: Mirianne d'Fleur
Age: 18
Sex: Female
Race: Human
Class/Sub-class: Two-Handed Warrior/Templar

Appearance:


Abilities:

• Block and Slash - She stands ready to deflect the next incoming attack and deliver a punishing counter to her attacker.
• Crushing Blow - She delivers a powerful attack that crumples her foes, knocking them off their feet.
• Spell Purge - Through faith and will, she dispels all hostile magic from the area around her.
• Wrath of Heaven - She summons a pillar of light that blinds nearby enemies and damages demons.
• Serene Presence - She radiates calm faith, inspiring allies to hold fast even in face of overwhelming odds.

Personality: Mirianne is the picture of serene beauty. She never seems to get angry or lose her patience. Her faith in the Maker is unshakable, to point where she will sometime use the Chant of Light in conversation. That said, her real world knowledge is sometimes lacking, giving her a somewhat naive view of the world.

History: Even a glistening gem of a city like Val Royeaux has it's dirty underbelly. Mirianne's family were dirt poor, living in the hidden slums of the holy city. When Marianne's mother was pregnant she fell deathly ill and no healer within her father's price range could help her. Desperate her father undertook the difficult pilgrimage to the Frostback Mountains, hoping to visit the Temple of Sacred Ashes and return with a pinch of the fabled Ashes of Andraste.

The journey was difficult and fraught with danger, and when Mirianne's father returned to Val Royeaux, he was near to death. As was his wife, but fortunately he had brought the ashes in time. They were used to mix a draught that she swallowed moments before going into labour. The birth was long and sadly neither Mirianne's Mother, nor her exhausted and injured father survived. However they both lived long enough to hear their daughter's first cries and, it is said, they passed with smiles.

Mirianne was taken in by the Chantry and raised to be a Sister. However as she grew she showed some interest in the Templars and underwent some informal training alongside them. Her teenage years were disrupted by the Mage-Templar War and the Death of Divine Justinia which threw the Chantry into chaos. It was during this time that Mirianne began to speak of the Voice. A soothing Voice that told her everything would be fine. She spoke of this to the other Clerics, telling them not to worry, that the Voice said all would be well. Scrambling to replace the Divine left the Clerics with little time to listen to the ramblings of a young Sister, and so she went largely ignored.

Once the crisis was over and Divine Victoria was elected, the new Divine came to hear of this sister who claimed to hear voices. Having once believed herself to hear the Voice of the Maker, she went to see Mirianne in person. Mirianne was interviewed by the Divine and all of the College of Clerics for weeks and in the end they all agreed unanimously that Mirianne had been touched by the Maker.

Most believed that the Ashes of Andraste had made Mirianne more receptive than most to the Light of the Maker, while some of the more extreme clerics believed she had been made into a Vessel for Andraste's soul itself. Whatever the truth, the Divine took Mirianne to her side, naming her the Right Hand of the Divine and ensuring her training continued. When news of the Darkspawn invasion reached Divine Victoria, she placed Mirianne at the head of her task force.

Name: Theodore Van Markham
Title: Lord Commander, Grand Marshal (formerly)
Sex: Male
Race: Human

Appearance:


Relevant Information: A close cousin to the Royal Pentaghasts of Nevarra, Lord Commander Van Markham was originally named Grand Marshal of the military forces deployed to stem the tide of the Darkspawn threat. Unfortunately, despite his best efforts, he found his forces inadequate to halt the Darkspawn's southward march for any extended period of time. Whenever it seemed like the line might hold, a renewed push forced the Nevarran Military to pull back further and further south. Finally at the request of the Divine, the King of Nevarra commanded Theodore to stand down and step asside for a representative from the Inquisition to take up the mantle of Grand Marshal. Van Markham begrudgingly obeyed his King and returned to his original rank of Lord Commander, overseeing the logistics of administration of the Forward Camp and the nearby Refugee Camp, while the Inquisition agent took command of the defenses.

Name: Colin Roche
Age: 27
Sex: Male
Race: Human
Class/Sub-class: Duel-Wield Rogue/Duelist

Abilities:
Dance of Death – He gains confidence and control with each defeated opponent, giving him the strength to keep on fighting.
Unforgiving Chain - His daggers are a blur and he is an opportunist, this with his speed and stamina make him a deadly foe to fight for any extended duration.
Combat Movement – He dances around his enemies awaiting the fatal flaw in their defence.
Coup de grâce – Against stunned or badly wounded opponents he is death itself, able to deliver brutal finishers to multiple weakened foes.
Deft Hands, Fine Tools – His colourful past has left him with some useful, but usually criminal skills.



Personality: Colin is courageous, impulsive, angry, prone to violence and sarcastic as hell. He's generally just in it for gold and good times and doesn't really care what “it” happens to be as long as there are people to fight and renown to be earned. He very much enjoys fighting, especially with his fists and takes great pleasure in toying with friends and foes alike who take combat too seriously, which is just about everyone. He's confident in his abilities, arrogant most would say and it shows both in and out of combat. Over everything else he wants glory.



History: Colin grew up in the city of Denerim in Fereldan, the son of a local tavern wench. He never knew his father and he never really cared. His mother took great care of him despite his constantly getting intro trouble as a child. He’d fight nearly every other day as a kind of youthful distraction. Him and a few good friends would group up and fight kids from the cities other neighborhoods for no other reason than that they were bored. It wasn’t too long before they found out that their reckless energy could be used to get gold and soon they were acting in cut-purse units. One or two kids causing a distraction and one, usually Colin sneaking in and cutting the purse strings. At this time however it was more for a bit of fun than anything else.

A couple of years later a sickness swept through the slums of Denerim and Colin’s mother took sick and simply didn’t get better. Colin was 10 at this time, and it was then that his practice as a cut-purse and fighter would start to really matter. From then on cut-pursing became a regular part of his life, and it wasn’t simply for a laugh anymore. He found as the next couple of years went on however that people were getting more and more careful with their purses and the city guards became ever watchful. It was then that a good friend introduced him to lock-picking and burglary. He had a knack for all things thievery it seemed, and learned how to pick locks quickly. He made a lot of money selling things that didn’t belong to him, but eventually made the mistake of selling some goods to an apparently honest man.

So he lost a finger for that crappy 80 bit vase. It definitely wasn’t worth it, but shit happens. He was around fourteen years of age now and the years had been reasonably kind. He stole enough to keep him relatively well fed and he and his friends still had fun fighting in the back alleys. It was at that time when he first discovered the fighting pits. Back alley fights where people placed bets and the fighters were paid well. Colin thought he’d discovered his dream job. Luckily he was big for his age and convinced the fight organizer that he was sixteen instead of his true age. Not that the bloke actually cared about anything more than the money. So at fourteen he entered his first real fight. He was beaten bloody. Worst beating he’d ever taken at that age, and he’d taken more than a few. Still, he was undeterred. Three months and several unofficial gang fights later he was back in the ring. Once again he was beaten, but this time he gave quite the beating in return. A month later he was back and this time he won, dodging most of his opponents strikes, dislocating his arm and pummeling his face. As he stood and his opponent didn’t he felt better than he ever had before in his life. Power. Pride. Something. He loved it.

He found himself back in that ring over a hundred times in the next six or so years. He became incredibly skilled in hand to hand combat and for a time he was the main attraction of the pit-fighting world. Eventually though someone made a comment about fighting with steel being real fighting and for some reason he couldn’t get it out of his head. Maybe he’d get that feeling again. That feeling he had felt after winning, truly winning for the first time.

So, because of a stupid remark by a random person he joined The Blackstone Irregulars and began training with his first two iron daggers. He wasn’t that great with blades at first but luckily some skills from fist fighting were transferable. He moved very well, he was patient for kill opportunities and best of all he was seemingly fearless. Once again he learned quickly and it wasn’t long before he was sent out on contracts. Over the next seven years he killed deserters, guarded merchants, killed bandits, recovered stolen supplies and did all other types of petty soldier work. The man was right about one thing. Killing was exhilarating, but there were things that he despised about the job. Firstly, he wasn’t paid very well. Secondly he didn’t get any of the glory of his actions. Everyone he killed, every contract he did well, all of the thanks went straight to the Blackstone Irregulars.

It was that little fact that made him decide to leave the company and instead start out as an independent sellsword. He wanted the gold and glory he bought so often with others blood.

Name: Ansgar Staudinger

Age: 58

Sex: Male

Race: Human

Allegiance: Ferelden Crown

Class/Sub-class: Warrior | Reaver

Appearance:




Abilities:
Devour - "It is a thirst that cannot be slaked. Each enemy dead, another few moments onto my life in the heat of battle. A curse, or a blessing. Decide for yourself." - Ansgar feasts upon the souls of slain foes, their lingering energy revitalizing him, closing wounds and staving off death for another battle. It only takes him a few moments concentration before the dead spirits energy is stolen away from the dead, creating an unsettling wind centering on Ansgar before his wounds close.

Blood Frenzy - "I have memories, vague, in crimson tints. Of a warrior lost in battle, demons possessing his form, the closer to death's sweet release, the greater his mad fury. Then I awake, in cold sweats, and a somber, chilling thought rings clear in the doubt and despair. Those aren't always my memories, yet they fit the thinker perfectly..." - The pain of each wound landed against him only increases his fury and prowess in combat, when he releases the demons within him. While in this form, the demons prevent the natural healing of his body as the vessel is imperfect, yet the closer to expiring the vessel gets, the more extreme the damage he can deal.

Two Handed Mastery - "The longer I live, the better I have gotten with my accursed blade. It's power has long since left it, I am the new vessel, but it is far better than your average steel blade. Those who would cross blades with me will regret it, even without the demons, I am no target to attack lightly..." - Ansgar has focused all his combat training onto the use of his greatsword, a nameless blade that once bore great corruption, and even before that point when he served as a regular soldier.

Death Blow - "Each fallen foe restores my vitality, each fallen foe restores my hope that a blessed end to combat is one step closer. I cannot fail, cannot falter, not until I have finally been slain. Then I can rest in whatever Hell the Maker sees fit to place me in for my transgressions." - Each enemy that Ansgar fells restores part of his stamina, increasing how long he can fight all out. Coupled with drawing in the life force of fallen enemies, it makes him a terror on the battlefield.

Reaving Storm - "Subtle isn't a strong point of mine, in a fight, to begin with. When faced with masses of enemies, mortal or darkspawn, I cannot afford the luxury of single blows, and the demons will not afford the luxury to me. Numbers will not save them." - Each mighty swing of Ansgar's dark blade can claim numerous heads with one mighty cleave, which can be taxing on the stamina of the warrior without some method of keeping his stamina up. Ansgar, however, does and in the right situation, he is a juggernaut on the field.

Personality: Ansgar has a split personality, to put it bluntly, which can be shocking to people who only see him on the battlefield, or off of it, how drastic a change these two men are. When not in a combat situation, the warrior is quiet and contemplative, speaking in a highly intelligent manner that is often accented with polite manners of speech and a steadfast refusal to ever become offended or angered. He tends towards a loner mentality, finding a secluded part of a camp to meditate and center himself, and as far as most people are typically aware, he is merely doing this for the sake of some martial tradition, as it is typically how he explains it away. He isn't lying, but he certainly is not telling the truth either. He isolates himself for the safety of others, and seems unusually loyal to anyone who insists in getting to know the warrior, as they are a rare few and far between.

In combat, one can be forgiven for not recognizing Ansgar at all. Once a battle breaks out, the demons inside the tortured man surge forward, and it is all that Ansgar can do to not lash out at allies, barely controlling the demonic fury to kill everything as he guides his body towards the enemy. He shows a blatent disregard for any and all self preservation, seeming solely focused on one very clear goal. Slaughter anything that stands against him and anyone lucky, or unlucky, enough to not be in his definition of enemy at the time. Ansgar fights with a wild abandon seen only in those with nothing left to lose, and facing certain death, with every battle. Even his fighting style in combat reflects his possessed status. Eyes burning with red fury, abyss black blade drenched in blood, each swing aiming for maximum damage with no care for his own survival, and its with amazement spirit healers and field surgeons look upon him coming back, unwilling to believe he had survived in the state he marches back in.

History: Ansgar Staudinger was born to a family of military lifers, veterans who chose to stay in until they were too old to fight, and would proceed to train oncoming generations of soldiers instead. His mother was an archer that died in child birth, and before he ever met his father, a bold knight that defended his brothers and sisters with shield and blade, the man met his end upon the blades of brigands in ambush. Raised by his father's fellow knights, he was raised solely to fight against any and all who would turn out to be hostile to the realm of Ferelden. He proved a natural with a great two handed sword, and he was taught well in such a manner that, at 9.18 Dragon when his birthday came to, the knights that had befriended his father gave him the fallen man's armor and had reforged his equipment to fit the young man's tastes. It was a grand day for him, and for twelve years he would serve within the Ferelden army as a brave, loyal soldier who enjoyed learning and bettering himself through any means offered to him, something looked upon favorably as he rose in rank.

That all changed after the Fifth Blight broke out, and Ansgar was among the forces who would march to Ostagar and fight the Darkspawn there. It was expected to be an easy breaking of the Darkspawn horde, no suspicion that there was indeed an Archdemon in their ranks, and this was a full blown Blight after all. History took its course, and while Ansgar fought bravely with his brothers to hold off the Darkspawn, a mighty blow from an Ogre cast him from the ramparts, and all would assume the veteran warrior had been slain, either from the ogre or the fall. And to be fair, Ansgar was near death when he came to, with countless broken bones, his blade shattered, and his armor damaged. But he was yet alive, and breathing, the darkspawn and fighting forces gone. Ostagar had fallen, he could tell, which meant that things had not gone as planned. He was, at the time, unaware that King Theirin was slain and betrayed, and only a handful of other survivors, Grey Wardens included, had escaped. But his wounds were bad, and he had a broken greatsword and damaged armor to protect him in these no doubt infested woods. It was a miracle, or a curse, that he managed to survive long enough to stumble upon a long forgotten fort.

It was a small place, old and clearly forboding. Most would have known better and turned away, but a dying warrior cared little for such things. So Ansgar entered the place, descending to the deepest part of the fort, torches lighting of their own volition as he dragged himself along, unable to collapse and give up now. Before long he found a shrine, with a black, abyssial blade on an alter, with a flask of crimson fluid on top of it. Countless dead surrounded the alter, all recently slain despite how old the place was, and the scroll of stone above the makeshift alter spoke of great power, even above death, for those that would imbibe the blood of Dragons. Ansgar would normally not put credence in such myths and heresay, but the mind of a dying man will reach for any reason to exist, especially since he knew the Darkspawn were yet to be halted. So he drank the flask's contents in full, feeling a fire in his belly and something else inside his mind, fighting him for control. The blood was indeed of a Dragon, but had been cursed with the spirit of a Demon. The blood power of a Reaver was all that saved him from succumbing as the others had and falling upon his own ruined blade.

Taking up the blade on the alter, Ansgar shut out the whispers and ragings of the voices that now were in his head, feeling his wounds close as the spirits of the dead around him drew close, binding his wounds and making his bones whole again. He would make his way out of the fort, surrounded by a band of Darkspawn that had found the human's bloody trail. He doesn't readily remember what happened after that, but in a bloody fury he had cut down the band of Darkspawn, nearly tearing himself apart in the process, and he would come to properly in a tavern bed days later, his armor mended and the black blade, gleaming with a silver edge, and with a look in the mirror he was shocked to be missing an eye, a mess of scar tissue remaining in its place. His armor remained as it had been, and as he pulled the helm and sheathed the blade, the voices came back in a torrent, threatening to lose all control at that moment in time. But he was able to resist, slipping out of the tavern and heading for wherever the Darkspawn congregated the thickest. During the year of the Fifth Blight, stories of this warrior would arise, a voiceless figure of death and rage, cleaving grand paths through the Darkspawn forces wherever they reared their ugly heads.

With the Warden slaying the Archdemon, the Darkspawn fled, but Ansgar was still left with his Reaver blood, and the voices in his head that grew loud without their thirst being slaked. He would seek out Apostate mages, as he couldn't trust the mage circles, in the hopes of freeing himself from the demonic voices in his head. He would spend his time unaware of the goings on in Kirkwall, but when rebellion broke out he would find himself protecting the very same Apostate mages, and circle mages as they rose up, that had at least tried to help him and gave him means of controlling the corrupting influence. Templars would speak of the figure with fear and revulsion, the bloody demon of a warrior often times arriving without a word, engaging in wholesale slaughter of any Templars that attempted to strike against the rebel mages. Even the mages he protected would be cautious and frightened of the forboding figure, a man of black armor swathed with azure cloth with a midnight black blade with silver lining, eyes of glowing red evil under his armored hood as he made slaughter a sport upon the Templar.

When the Conclave would explode, instead of fighting Templars, Ansgar would turn his blade upon the demons and invading forces from the rifts. Still claiming loyalty to the Ferelden crown, but serving in no official capacity, he would go wherever the demons invaded, regardless of Inquisition interference or not. He could not close the demonic gateways, but he could kill enough of them to hold long enough for reinforcements to arrive. Eventually even those demons would be gone, leaving the unholy swordsman without a cause again. Ansgar would roam wherever his feet took him, keeping an eye on the world while remaining as isolated as he could be to prevent his addled mind from snapping somewhere he would cause harm to others. The sheer amount of blood and suffering, both his and others, that had been spilled had satiated the voices for some time, only rising up in times of combat at this point to take charge if they could. When the Darkspawn rose again, after the quakes in Tevinter, and Ansgar immediately took to arms, heading towards the Darkspawn with the intent of fighting with whomever he happened to find himself alongside. But the call went out from Ferelden and Orlais to form the great Southern army, and the Divine herself called out for heroes of all walks to form a vanguard of the army. While he was no hero, he intended to join this band, a it would put him in the forefront of the fighting, and perhaps he would earn a brief rest before whatever Hell the Maker had set aside for him.