Evelyn in her younger years.

Name
Evelyn

Age
53

Gender
Female

Race
Human

Class/Specialization
Tempest Rogue (Archery)

Appearance
Evelyn’s hair is graying as she ages, and her skin is showing signs of decades of wear and tear, but she is remarkably fit for her age. At 5’4, her lean build paired with her aging appearance causes her foes to underestimate her, so though she lacks in pure strength, she makes up for with speed and agility unlike many at her age. That said, while Evelyn has worked tirelessly to stay in shape, she is much slower than she was in her youth, and younger, more agile rogues can easily outmaneuver her, forcing her to turn to other methods to stay ahead of the game.

Abilities
Leaping Shot
You dive out of trouble and fire a hail of arrows at the enemies that were trying to close with you.

Explosive Shot
You fire a powerful shot that explodes on impact, damaging enemies around your target.

Throwing Blades
You hurl a group of knives at all nearby targets, ripping through their armor and leaving it sundered.

Flask of Fire
This flask coats you in flames that spur you to frenzied action. Enemies who attack you are knocked backward.

Flask of Lightning
This flask sends you into a heightened state of incredible speed. Everyone on the battlefield except you moves much more slowly for a short time.

Stealth
You step into the shadows, all but invisible to your enemies. Attacking from stealth gives you a damage bonus and brings you back to the enemy's attention.

Personality
Evelyn is known as oddly well-intentioned for an assassin and ex-Orlesian bard. She is fiercely loyal to those that she trusts, and particularly in recent years, Evelyn has been known to botch jobs in order to keep her people alive and well. However, those that question if she’s losing her killer instinct often find themselves victim of it, whether it be a result of Evelyn exercising the political influence she still holds in both Ferelden and Orlais or exercising her bow by flinging arrows at people’s faces.

But as caring and maternal she can be, Evelyn is also pretty damn grumpy. She gets annoyed at just about everything, and has a bad habit of overreacting. For the most part, her experience and wisdom gained throughout the years helps Evelyn keep herself in check, but she slips up more often than she’d like.

Origin
She’s definitely from Orlais - the accent tells as much. But Evelyn doesn’t know where she was born, or who her parents were, nor does she really think it matters too much. What does matter is that at around age twelve, some childless Comtesse or whatever snatched her up from a countryside shack Evelyn was hiding in and decided to adopt the poor girl. Not that Evelyn had much of a choice, mind you; it was that or be arrested for breaking into said shack, murdering another homeless squatter that tried to take the shack from her, and hiding the body in a bush down the road.

Such was the way of life for a homeless Orlesian orphan.

Of course, Evelyn welcomed the change in scenery. Being the adopted daughter of an unmarried, wealthy Comtesse in Orlais had its benefits, after all. Her life turned from roaming, begging, and animalistic survival to wearing the nicest clothes in the land and attending all the fanciest balls and parties. It was everything Evelyn dreamed of and envied as a young girl. It helped that her mother was kind to her, to be sure. The Comtesse provided for Evelyn’s every need and sought to fill the motherly role Evelyn lacked as a child. Within a year, it was said Evelyn was so reformed she could have been the Comtesse’s real child, for all anyone knew.

The Grand Game only served to fit Evelyn even more. The Comtesse saw potential in Evelyn - her charm, her looks, and her innate ability to deceive and, if needed, kill all fit the Comtesse’s aspirations. Evelyn accepted her role willingly, all too happy to assist her mother in their attempt to navigate the Orlesian noblility.

Evelyn and the Comtesse found moderate success in the Game - enough for Evelyn to turn her eyes towards the horizon for bigger goals by the time she turned seventeen. The next couple years grew to be turbulent between Evelyn and the Comtesse, as Evelyn desired freedom while the Comtesse kept her close. Ultimately, it was an argument Evelyn won, as the then-nineteen year old girl used her own skill and experience with the Game to outplay her own mother and force the Comtesse to allow Evelyn to leave.

Over the next two decades, Evelyn wandered Orlais, taking advantage of her talents to do freelance dirty work for anyone that needed it; though she made sure her work never went against her mother in any way. During this time, she had run-ins with mercenary groups, various crime syndicates, and even the Antivan Crows, though that encounter brought her much closer to death than she would like to admit. She would visit home every so often, and help her mother with certain errands here and there, but Evelyn never really settled down in one place.

At the age of forty, Evelyn received an offer from the Friends of Red Jenny, who were, at the time, still mostly doing assassin work in Denerim. They wanted her to work strictly for them as they sought to expand their business across Ferelden and even into Orlais. Intrigued by their offer as well as the potential it carried, Evelyn accepted, joining the Friends of Red Jenny as one of the most experienced rogues and assassins in Denerim. Several years later, Evelyn had helped the Red Jennies expand into Val Royeaux and Kirkwall, and she returned to Val Royeaux as the senior member of the Red Jennies in the city.

She held her position with the Red Jennies up until the Fifth Blight came and passed, at which point she was notified that the Red Jennies were looking to move away from solely assassination and explore other ways to expand and hold influence within Thedas. Evelyn, seeing that her services were no longer a fit for the group, stepped down and sought her next source of income, bringing her to Kirkwall in search of some tall Qunari with a boat and some coin.

Other
She’s either your mother, or she really wants to be your mother.

Name: Rannon Bryceford

Age: 27

Gender: Male

Race: Ferelden, Human

Class/Specialization: Warrior

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.

Abilities:

• Pommel Strike: Uses all parts of the sword as a weapon
• Indomitable: Almost unflinching when in battle
• Sunder Armor: Has powerful blows able to pierce armor
• Commanding presence: Charismatic when it comes to hardship and battle. Knows how to lift spirits of fellow soldiers or teammates with small gestures.
• Tactically minded: Can read a battlefield and respond accordingly
• Athletic: Able to duck, roll, and dodge well enough in his armor. Isn't helpless when unarmed (though of course, not as effective)

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 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 is iffy on, but takes it in stride if they are his companions. 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.

Origin: 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. He realized he needed to shape up, and he'd been sober for 6 months, acting as a city guard, until he heard of a better offer at the docks...

Other: Has a Mabari named Gideon. He's adorable
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.

Background:
Excerpt from Commander Esylwn’s journal…
We got a new recruit today, an Elf - since our unit already has 20 archers I was doubting the sources we got that we really needed another Elven archer; don’t get me wrong the knife ears are the best bowmen in all of Thedas, nobody can compare to them, especially if they are Dalish, but it turns out this guy was meant to be a bit “unique”, yeah, that was the word they used.
The last company that had him said he was first in and last out, meaning he was always at the vanguard and he always came back last from the fight; at least in their experience.
Gotta admit, it got me interested in just what sort of Elf would be like that, hell not just an Elf, any guy, girl, dog or horse is something you want that fits that description.
So, I went to this old mansion in Hightown to pick this guy up, had my Lieutenant and a couple of my hardest lads with me, and as always our mage.
It was the dead of night and we had to skirt a few patrols before we finally reached the place - looked as if nobody had lived in it for years, Ivy was overgrown taking up half of the wall exterior and you could see it making its way through cracks into the house proper - you couldn’t pay me to live in that place, half the homes in Lowtown are better looking than this dump.
I could punch the wall and it’d crumble.

Anyway, we got inside, went through the preliminaries, shook hands with the knives out behind our backs, you know all the usual shit; always be prepared for an ambush first rule I live by when you try and talk to anyone - and I mean anyone, even my own mother.
That's when we got a glimpse of the guy, I can see straight away what they meant by unique, he was clad in armour, well his left side was; the further to the right the armour got the less of it there was, it was as if he could only afford half of the armour being made.
It was real thick plate, a Dragon’s hide would look easier to crack in comparison, his arm had so much metal attached to it I was honestly surprised he could lift to meet my handshake.
The armour looked absurd because generally our groups wear uniforms so you know who they are, ours is a red and black that and we employ styles from Antiva and Ferelden, makes us look real distinctive, and that's what you want.
I suppose he was really easy to spot, you couldn’t miss that thing on a battlefield that's for damn sure.

So, after we exchanged niceties we got down to business, his contract cost me and arm and a leg but his service record really outshined the price - 36 sovereigns for two years; half that again if we lease it for another two years within the first year.
If he breaks his contract we get 50% back, and if he dies during the contract we get 60% if it’s the first year and it halves every consecutive year he’s in our employ.
Thank the maker I brought my Lieutenant it’s all this part of the mercenary work that really grates on me.
All about professionalism and running this place as if it’s a business, I suppose he’s right despite how much it gives me a headache.
They also said we can purchase the contract off them for 160 sovereigns of which I kindly told them to shove it up their arses, no man is worth that amount of money; bloody thieves.

In my experience the entire thing went over very smoothly, which is rare, I consider events like these to go well if only 3 people die, because the sword is usually our bargaining tool, I suppose this is what it’s meant to be a professional in the merc line of work.
Well, I assume it’s going to go well, we also picked up a bit of work with these guys as a gesture of goodwill between our parties; that’ll probably go sourer than Dwarf in a dry bar.
We are scheduled to meet at a crossroads a few miles south of Mount Harrowmount, there we will set up an ambush for some bastards that think they can muscle in on the work we do here, new and up and coming lot that have some dick head noble paying them, this reeks of “good work! Oh would you look at that I just stabbed you in the back.”
I’ve got the guys and the newbie ready for anything, as well as this I have 5 snipers with the task of shooting dead the Elf if he tries to turn on us.
Nobody double crosses Kristoph Eslwyn and gets away with it. Let’s see how this goes in a few days time, maybe I’m just being overly-cautious....

Excerpt from Gerith’s journal - dated: 14th of Solace, 9:27 Dragon

These new guys aren’t too bad, they seem to have warmed up to me fairly well - normally a new merc in an already well established band gets a bit of a tough time, “hazing” they call it, not me though - turns out they all know what work I’ve already done in my time with the old group, they treat me with respect, if not being a bit careful around me as well.
They’re quite a varied group, gotta say they don’t discriminate here I see Elves; city and dalish, Dwarves, Qunari and obviously humans; cards is a bloody mess when every race is in on it - The qunaris sits there with a face so still you’d think it was a stone carving, the dwarves have their twitchy fingers wrapped around a blade for when they lose and the elves don’t pay their debts - well some of them anyway.
Either way, they’ve made me feel at home with the new group, and that I appreciate very much.

We have a job coming up with my old group, gunna raid a caravan that's been escorted by some wankers called the “Bloodstone Warriors” - some fucking name I tell you, the targets are the Mercs escorting the goods rather than the caravan, but of course anything we loot is just a bonus, we are getting a decent pay for this job and it will be the last time I see anything of the group that’s got their grubby little fingers on my contract, that’s my intention anyway, I plan to kill everyone of the bastards sometime down the line; teach them to abuse a liberty.

Excerpt from Lieutenant Vrald Hoss’ journal - dated 18th of Solace 9:27 Dragon
So, today was beyond any form of strange that I’ve encountered as a mercenary, and I’ve encountered some fucked up shit in my time in Kirkwall, had to fight some of it too.
But today?
Yeah that's one for the records.

It was the beginning of the operation we were having with the group we got our new guy from - normally you can expect jobs after a transaction to almost always be ambushes or traps, especially from the very people who you just done a deal with - most of us in this line of work are backstabbing bastards who’d do anything for some sovereigns, especially early in the career; with age comes wisdom, I live by that, literally as it is my old age that is keeping me alive in this godforsaken world.
So, Our groups met up at the ambush point at dawn, Commanders shook hands and in quiet tones we spoke about the plan - seemed pretty simple, we’d wait for them to come by and jump them.
The terrain offered lots of cover and had plenty of spots we could place archers on the high ground - then there was the new guy, said he’d go in first, he was wearing some really odd armour, practically covered every inch of his left half of the body, but his right was fairly exposed, only had a few plates to keep his joints and body safe, talked to one of the other guys in the other Merc group, said I should watch first, judge later.
And so, we set up shop, and waited. And waited…. and waited.
We were contemplating a game of wicked grace to pass the time before one of our scouts came running - it was time to get ready for the ambush.
They got to the mid point, so they were covered from all sides by both us and the other merc group, a quick glance before the order was given showed a Caravan with about 20 guards, and a total of 5 wagons, so there should be some decent pickings there - but the fight would be a different matter.
The call to battle was sounded and the archers from both sides unleashed a volley down to caravan, claiming the lives of 6 guards and some of the caravan drivers.
The easiest part was over, and we should have really killed more in the opening we had, but either way both sides charged down from their spots and into the enemy - and before we were even half way I seen that the newbie kept his promise, straight into the fray; shield raised and the second he was in range of one of the enemy he hit the guys head so hard with that bulwark, that it snapped back at an impossible angle, he claimed his first of the battle.
The battle itself was extremely short lived; they were outnumbered and surrounded, we only lost a single guy in the fight and a few guys had some flesh wounds but nothing the healer couldn’t fix up.
This was the part where all of us expected the knife to come out and be planted firmly in our backs.
But the moment never came, the other commander said we could pick two of the caravans for us to take, and he’d do the same, then they’d flip a coin - heads got the last caravan, tails got all the loot from the bodies.
We got the the loot from the bodies and before we knew it we were on our merry way with shit load of loot.
Never known a more tense atmosphere of dread and anticipation over the group, they were just waiting for another ambush on the way back; but by the time we reached the outskirts of Kirkwall, we were shocked we had actually come across another Merc group who keeps their word, the mead flowed with abundance that night; the newbie was no longer regarded as such after the news broke that he had killed 6 of the guards by himself, 4 of them with nought but his shield.
Gotta say, that was the high point of the year for this outfit, made a lot of money, and nothing went wrong.
What more could you ask for; here’s hoping the rest of the year follows suit...

The mercenary group named the Veredium Blades held the contract for Gerith for a number of years, they became quite successful and started branching out to others areas in the Free Marches, it had some staples within the group that made it special, one of course being the frontline menace that was Gerith and his shield, used more for offence than it was defence - eventually Gerith asked the Commander to help him destroy his contract - so he could end his time being no more than an object sold to the highest bidder for his services.
Kristoph agreed after some deliberation; it was a move that freed one of their greatest assets, but equally it crippled the Merc group in doing so, it started a war with the very people whom had loaned them Gerith in the first place, they were professional and very well organised; not only that but they ties with the Antivan Crows; The commander knew the risks but felt that it was the least he could do to the Elf whom he respected a great deal, without a doubt his loyalties lied with Kristoph and the rest of the group, they were a family; if not a dysfunctional one, but a family none the less.
After a successful ambush of the Merc group, which was named the “Free March Hawks”, a clear and blatantly obvious attempt to try and be the next Antivan crows, or a better version.
Multiple strikes out to the bases of operations up and down the coast proved successful, but now that the element of surprise was no longer present, the real struggle began - the conflict lasted months, it was long, bloody and it resulted in several fights amongst the streets of Kirkwall until the day when the leader of the “Free march hawks” was finally confronted, Gerith was so close to acquiring the leash around his neck followed by his master's hand before he managed to escape.
Kristoph and the merc group simply lacked the strength and resources to chase him down.

It was this that caused a great time of uncertainty for both Gerith and the Merc group, years down the line fortunes haven’t really changed nor improved for either party.
Gerith started doing some extra work, to make up for the pain and damage his situation has caused the Mercs that he has grown to love.




Skills:

Shield Bash: The difference between most sheild users and Gerith is that his shield is his sword, and he uses it as such.

Challenge: Just try it - I dare you, many have thrown themselves at his shield all have met the same fate.

Charging Bull: There’s no better place to be on the field of battle, than the very front lines, and this is his ticket there, regardless of who is in front of him.

Overpower “Where’d his axe go?” Before you know it he’s on top of some poor git and using his shield turns their head into a pile of mush.

Mythals vengeance: The Silverite bulwark and monstrous shield that Gerith carries is no ordinary shield, the expensive and resilient metal it’s crafted from says that much, but it has a latent power in it, the reward; a personal one from the end of a job had a Blood mage enchant his sheild as a reward for saving his hide from two templars - after drawing upon the power infused within the metal, Gerith assumes a defensive position, all the pain and blood that he spills from damage over a set amount of time is absorbed by the shield and then after a battlecry. Gerith unleashes the power absorbed from the damage he took over that time, unleashing a powerful shockwave that can outright kill weakened enemies and stun others.

Like the shield wasn’t bad enough. Carries a war axe and a pouch filled with little throwing hatchets, can't see him behind the shield? Chances are he’s about to ram an axe in your thigh.