Name
Ferirev "Feri" Kobald

Age
30

Gender
Female

Race
Half-Human (Rivaini) by Father, half-Dwarven by Mother.

Class/Specialization
Rogue/Duelist

Appearance
At first glance, Feri could quite easily pass as a strangely tall Dwarf, or a very short human, what with her mixed blood giving her a strange height for both races. Her figure is less stocky than that of a female Dwarf, with a more defined waist and hips, and being generally slimmer in the arms and legs. However, in human standards, she would be considered as curvaceous and voluptuous. Her face too, is more angular than that of a dwarf, with prominent cheekbones, full lips, and green eyes.

Feri’s Rivaini heritage has given her a tanned complexion, lighter than that of her Father, but enough so to indicate she is no pale-skinned Fereldan. Her skin is mostly clear around her face, barring a few freckles across her nose, which will appear when she’s been in the sun too long; however, her body is littered with scars of past skirmishes. While most remain minor, the pale scar tissue stands out against her tanned skin and makes them more obvious. Not that she cares, that is – the main one she dislikes is a particularly deep one running down the length of her back. The tissue there is knotted and ugly, but as it’s usually hidden by either clothes or her nearly waist-length hair, she doesn’t really have issues with it. As for her hair – a black so dark it almost has tinges of blue in it – it is rarely tied up, usually with some strands plaited together to frame her face, or pushed back with a colourful scarf or bandana.

As far as her outfits go, they are as lightweight and durable as any other rogue’s. Leather and fur in a theme of browns and blue’s; her leather armour consists of a teal cotton undershirt with elbow-length sleeves; a brown corset and leggings along with knee-length leather boots, light leather pauldrons and gauntlets with teal fingerless gloves beneath. She also has a lightweight and tattered brown leather coat, trimed with fur along the neck and shoulders and tied with a blue sash. As for jewellery, she has seven piercings; two in each earlobe, three along the cartilage of her right ear and two along her left; she also wears her father’s amulet (Medium in size, gold, and with a sapphire pendant set within), and a woven leather bracelet – a good luck token from Antiva.

Abilities

Perforate
The back is a good target – can’t see it coming to defend it, so why not puncture some sucker’s lung from behind?

Twin Fangs
She has two daggers, she may as well use them to the best of her ability.

Cutting Barbs
It’s not a fight without witty remarks and sneering digs. May as well knock your foe’s confidence through words as well as your swordplay.

Riposte
The best offence is a good a defence. Or is it the other way around? Either way, you gotta know how to deflect those strikes.

Rush
Is there anything scarier than a furious, sarcastic half-Dwarf running towards you with her knives aiming for your throat and your balls? No, I thought not. Perfect tactic, really.

Evasive Manoeuvres
Her armour isn’t what one would actually deem as very protective, so darting out of the way when her defences fail has saved Feri on more than one occasion.

Personality
Unless done sarcastically, it should be noted that Feri doesn’t smile very often. She was often like this prior to the shitstorm that occurred in her life a couple of years back, but smiles are few and far between these days. At first, bitter would be a good word to describe her, but she doesn’t complain enough to be considered that. Feri hates nothing more than complaints – she has a very “Move on and deal with it” take on life. Lost your job? Get over it and find a new one. Feeling ill? How is complaining going to make you better? Find a healer for God’s sake. Somebody murdered your family and severely injured you? Get better, bide your time, don’t let it eat away at you, and when you find the bastard, rip his stomach out and force him to chew on it as you castrate him.

Of course, sometimes it’s hard for her to follow her own advice. Because certain events in her life have changed her, despite her preferences. Feri drinks more than is healthy, scowls like a Templar in Tevinter, and is often too quick to deliver a sarky remark where a more sympathetic one would have a better impact. Despite all this, if one were to truly know her, she would show more empathy. Even in her everyday life, one can see this – her almost angry defense of the oppressed, the protection of the weak, and the avoidance of doing anything involving hurting the innocent. Because behind all her anger and sarcasm is sadness, and while it surfaces in fairly productive ways when killing people, it weighs heavy on her heart.

Origin

You want to hear my story? Fine, but I can’t promise it’ll entertain you. I’m no story teller.

As you’ve no doubt guessed, I’m not a regular Dwarf. Or human, at that – I’m a cute little mixture of both. My Mother – a Dwarf, named Naraja - was born above ground, away from all the shit in Orzammar and free to do as she wished. Well, as long as the Guild approved, anyway. Her Dad had left his home town, his clan, and his Noble Caste to make it big on the surface world, being the amazing merchant he was. Once he got to the Merchant’s Guild, he was good to go. Didn’t take long for him to impress the big guys in charge, the Kalnas, and he was soon raking in the money for his family. Life was all good for them – yeah, my Mom told me it was somewhat strict for her, but nowhere near as bad as it would have been in Orzammar. Women there are nothing more than baby machines, from what I’ve heard. What a life that would have been... sheltered until you could pop kids out, and then married off to some piece of shit noble that’s already screwed half of the whores in Dusttown.

Anyway... some years back, my Mom met my Dad. A pirate from Rivain - and naturally, she was besotted. He had the sun in his eyes and the sea in his hair, and she jumped onto his ship the first chance she got. Naturally, her own Dad wasn’t amused. But, they left the docks, and took to the open sea.

And that’s where I come into the picture. After an impromptu wedding after docking in Antiva, I was born about nine months later. On the ship, surrounded by all the scumbag sailors that became my family. And... honestly? It was great.

Growing up on a ship like that was amazing. The ocean became my home, and I learnt everything worth knowing from my parents and the crew. The quartermaster taught me my numbers and letters, my father taught me navigating, and my mother taught me the history of both the Dwarves and the Rivain. Naturally, once I got to a certain age and started showing, the crew treated me somewhat differently, but I didn’t mind half as much as my Dad did. He was always worried about me – worried I’d get blind drunk one night and wake up the next morning to find out I’d slept with half the crew, willingly or no. So, he taught me what he knew best... how to fight.

He was the best duelist you’d have ever met – the way he worked the knives, carving people apart with a roguish grin and a witty line; it was inspiring. I took to it like a ship to water (HAH), and was swiftly picking up what he was teaching. In no time at all, I was holding up my own in a duel against the crew members. Never my Dad – I’ll never be that good. Nobody will. The only time he was bested in a fight was when... when they...

Two years ago, we met another ship in the waters of the Waking Sea. We’d been about to dock in the Free Marches, and just past Brandel’s Reach, we saw it. Another pirate ship, cannons loaded and aimed in our direction. It was a far bigger ship than ours, and with myself and my Mother on board, my Dad didn’t want to risk a fight. So, when they came up beside us, he listened to what their Captain Eoman had to say.

He was an Elf, from Antiva. The tattoo upon his face was not Dalish in origin – I still remember it. A blazing sun, tattooed upon his forehead. All of the crew aboard his ship had the same one.

The Elf was merry, and was clearly enjoying himself as he threatened us. He stated that he had honour – if my Father could best him in a duel, he would leave our ship alone and carry on to the open sea. Naturally, everyone breathed a sigh of relief then – who could beat the great Captain Ianto Kobald?

Their crew, evidently. The duel was – obviously – in my Father’s favour. But as soon as their bastard Captain became overwhelmed, they drew their crossbows, and fired at my Father. It took 11 bolts to the chest to bring him down. I can’t understand why I can remember that number, but everything in that moment is painfully clear. The ring of swords as they were drawn, the screams of men dying on either side as the battle begun – the last words my father uttered to me and my mother before choking on his own blood, body cradled in our arms.

Once he was gone, my mother tore the amulet from his neck and pressed it into my hand, and all but dragged me down into the Captain’s quarters, barring the door behind us and drawing her sword. She told me to pack a bag, and in my grieving state, I blindly followed her order as the enemy pirates went about breaking down the door.

After that, things do become blurry. I remember drawing my knives, my mother bellowing with rage as she attacked the men, taking down two in a ridiculous amount of time. I was pushed back towards the windows. A blinding pain in my back, a shatter of glass, the sensation of free-falling and then... darkness.

When I awoke, I was in Kirkwall. Darktown, being tended by an Apostate named Anders. Apparently, some refugees had seen me floating down the coast, unconscious and barely slinging onto life. Thankfully, I wasn’t facing down. Anyway, they’d dragged me out of the water, bringing me to this mage on the run who’d set up shop in the bowels of the city, healing the sick and injured. I was surprised, that he didn’t want anything in payment from me. Even more surprised to find my bag with me, and nothing gone from it. My knives were still there, the few precious items I’d collected, and my Father’s amulet.

After recovering, I left the clinic (I gave him some money anyway – I’d enough in my pockets to last me, and I don’t like being indebted to people; either way, he seemed grateful.) and made my way to the docks, hoping that by some miracle, our ship would be docked there, my Mother alive and well.

It wasn’t. The workers there had no knowledge of it being docked, and even when asking the sailors, I discovered that neither of the ships had been sighted in the Waking Sea. So there I was, shipless, alone, and immensely pissed off.

In those two years, I did what I had to in order to survive. I did freelance work for most people in the city; the Merchant’s Guild, the Carta, even some apostates hiding about. What with my heritage, I couldn’t give a nug’s scrotum if you have magic or not. One thing I hate is being made to do things you don’t want to do, so naturally, I’m not particularly sympathetic to the Templars and their shitty Circle. On that note, the Chantry can go fuck itself too. Anyway, after all this time, my feet are getting itchy. I miss the ocean, and life on a ship. I hear somebody’s looking for a crew, so naturally, I want to be the first to sign up. Kirkwall is getting a bit too claustrophobic for me.

Other
Likes chicks and dicks – you just have to impress her first.