[CHAR] Dragon Age: Seas Of Thedas

[Saarebas]

"I am who I am, there is not a damn thing you can do to change that."

Name
"Captain" Vat-Katari

Age
35

Gender
Male

Race
Tal-Vashoth

Class/Specialization
Mage
Saarebas

Appearance
Vat-Katari, like the rest of his people, is a massive individual when compared to the other races. Standing at a staggering 7'4" and having a incredibly robust body build many consider Vat-Katari to have quite the intimidating stature. His hair is a wild white mane that hangs down below his shoulders that is paired with a fair amount of facial hair, though no where near the standard Dwarf amount. His eyes are a bright copper color, being borderline red. Vat-Katari is covered from head to toe in a mind boggling amount of scars, looking like has had been attacked with everything from an arrow to Mage lightning. He dawns a various assortment of piercings all over his body, even on his horns. Vat-Katari wears a small amount of armor paired with a full body painting of Vitaar.

Abilities
Asaara's Leap
Vat-Katari launches himself across the battle field, turning himself into a living projectile, and lands in a devastating explosion of elemental magic.
Saar-Taar Shield
Vat-Katari erects a barrier of protective magic around himself acting like a set of armor and warding off harm.
Ataashi's Breath
Vat-Katari lets loose a destructive wave of elemental magic to decimate the enemies before him.
Gaatlok Blast
Vat-Katari hurls stones pulled from the fade and charged with elemental magic at his foes.
Hand Of Issqun
Vat-Katari bends the veil to create a large telekinetic hand to combat foes.
Fury Of The Ataashi
Vat-Katari surrounds his hands in elemental magic, forming claw like constructs to eviscerate foes.
_{(Think something like Dragon Rage from Inquisition, but with added elemental effects)}

Personality
Matching his large and intimidating appearance Vat-Katari's demeanor can be just as overwhelming for some. Contrasting what many expect from his Qunari kin Vat-Katari is a hearty man who indulges himself on all the pleasures of life, from strong drink to beautiful women. He has a strong respect for the concept of freedom, believing it being the sole thing that defines a person in the end. Vat-Katari is cutthroat pure and simple, having no problems with getting his hands dirty to get the job done. Like any good sell sword Vat-Katari will practically take any job if the coin is good enough. Despite his massive greed Vat-Katari has his few good character traits such as his loyalty, if someone manages to earn that from him he'd face an Archdemon for them if he had to.

Origin
"Some would say being born in a war torn land to a bunch of rebels is kind of a shite start to life, but if you ask me it builds character! Yeah I was born on Seheron and my parents were part of the Tal-Vashoth, from what I am told my father was a solider and my mother some priestess before they decided to ditch the teachings of the Qun. Best way I can describe life among the Tal-Vashoth is like living with a bandit gang, hold up the locals for what you need to survive then you take whatever they have left. Life back then was full of cave for homes, rocks for beds, and more shite tasting food than you can imagine, but by Andraste's tits it beat the alternative of being part of the Qun!

I got older and started going out on raids with the rest of the Tal-Vashoth, I got pretty good at it too. Unlike my brothers in arms I didn't have nug turd for brains, rather than blindly attacking whoever was close by and convenient I actually got us going after targets worth having. Qunari weapon shipments, Tevinter supply caravans, hell even fog warrior camps all started to make their way on the top of our hit lists all thanks to me. Things only got better once I learned I was a Saarebas, or a mage as you lot call us. Luckily there were few other Saarebas in our group that gave me pointers so I didn't find myself with a demon clawing its way around my skull. Once I got a hang of things I became a real pain in the ass for the Qunari, a good chunk of their supplies went missing because of me.

As glamorous trekking through the jungles of some shite filled island and living off scraps is it gets a bit tiresome after awhile so I eventually found myself moving on to better pastors. I managed to get myself off Seheron and to the mainland where I got myself some good work as a sell sword. It wasn't too long into my career that I eventually got hired onto a ship as some extra muscle. That was when I realized that a life on the sea for me, that and the fact that the captain wasn't that hard on the eyes either. I spent a few years sailing the seas with that crew, but it eventually had to come to an end. So that brings us to now, I'm looking for a new crew to sail with. Now that story time is over how about you buy the next round?"

Other
Has developed quite the sweet tooth since coming to the main land, most noticeably Orlesian pastries.

[CrystalCHTriple]

-

[Tackytaff]

Jodee

Name: Jodee
Age: 20
Gender: Female
Race: Elf
Class/Specialization: Dual Rogue

Appearance:
Jodee could count one handed the number of times she clearly saw her face in a mirror, not that her appearance was something she ever considered. Her hair could be a pleasing light auburn colour, if she bothered to wash or brush it. But it is kept short barely reaching her jaw, and often looks shorter still due to its tendency to curl and form heavy mats that where more often cut away then combed out. This paired with the her lanky frame (even for an elf) that never quite formed into much more than somewhat tall child at 5’0, leads many to mistake her for a boy. A small few may find her face charming, but far from beautiful. The most prominent feature is the vallaslin of Ghilan’nain from her time with the Dalish. Her grey eyes slant outwards, making the smile on her too-wide mouth look more like a smirk and her nose ends too soon with an undemure upward turn. Whatever symmetry her face may have held is lost on a scar on the left cheek running from below the eye socket to jaw-bone, paired with a scattering of freckles that shows itself whenever too much time is spent out-doors, leaves her complexion as undesirable as any of her other features.

Abilities:
Slight of Hand:
Josee has been referred to as a 'sticky-fingered magpie'. She takes what she needs, or just wants at any given time. While hardly a master thief, she can and has survived on the ignorance of others as she sorts their pockets or cards.
Lockpicking:
Self-explanatory.
Story-teller:
Jodee’s energy and excitement often get the better of her and without meaning to sometimes the truth gets distorted, often enough she gets so wrapped up in a good lie she half believes it herself which helps others do the same.
Survival:
Not particularity masterful, and she’d much rather spend a night in a warm inn with plenty of wine and food; when push comes to shove Jodee can do quite well in the wilderness and even navigate using the stars or winds.
Side-step:
Luck and a big mouth often lead Jodee into situations she should never be in. As used to it as she is, there’s nearly always a way out if you move fast enough. She can doge slow attacks easy enough, but when things get too much for her, she can roll, twist or even flip a few meters away to safety before her opponent knows what happened.
Dual-Daggers:
Jodee can hold her own in a fight, her almost boundless energy is needed in her quick, unyielding combat style focused more on dodging and wearing her opponent down with small pinpricks before going in for a deadly strike when they’re sufficiently weary.

Personality: There aren’t many things that Jodee can’t find a reason to laugh at. Even at the worst of times she is downright cheery and rather annoyingly energetic. While she may fancy herself a sort of mercenary, she isn’t much more then a small time pickpocket, with too much of a conscious to outright kill someone who didn’t deserve it (not that she was particular about what was ‘deserving’ of a knife in the back). She is her own moral compass, and remorse and pitty are forgein to her. The few jobs she has done where for the excitement more than the coin; which no matter the amount can never remain in her pocket for too long. A string of luck seems to follow her wherever she goes, landing her both in and out of tight spots

History: Born if not exactly raised, in the city of Denerim the only relative Jodee has even know was her mother, a scullery maid to an inconsequential lord who could not quite make ends meet in the slums of the alienage. Jodee is fairly certain that ‘Jodee’ was not the name her mother had given her, and she may have once even had a last name, but after being orphaned and employed promptly at the age of 10 it is the only name anyone ever called her, and so it was the one she kept. The past is not something she likes to dwell on, her mother is a sweet memory distorted as it may be by time and her childhood was far from unhappy; but that only made the loss bitter in comparison and thus not something to dwell on. The employer was not the same as her mother’s though it might well of been. She was treated fairly though to work was tedious and she never performed up to expectations despite the number of years she spent repeating the same tasks. There aren’t a great many places for an elven girl to say in the capital and with her double sided luck, Jodee managed to continuously get herself into scrapes but landed on her feet each time, apparently never learning after each experience. It didn’t take long for her to get properly stuck into a gang at the age of 12. It was mostly elves, street rats, looking back it was doubtless the older ones where smuggling lyrium for ‘Litas’ a dwarf that had always smelled of rum. The younger ones; herself and a handful of other urchins she never knew well, where simple pickpockets and thieves of the houses they worked. For the first while she was rather terrible, but she was small and watery-eyed looks to the guards with pitiful stories of starving sisters where usually enough to keep the off. After three years of the trade however, she became rather adept and developed a rather sever case of kleptomania. Then of course the bad turn of her luck came and her dead-drops stopped getting retrieved. Guards came to her employer’s house to take her away. But she was still young and knew nothing and was turned back out after a week in cells.

She was 15 and unemployable, with no friends of contacts to speak of. Denerim was done she decided and left. The Dalish where hardly more than a folk story to children in the alienage, and when she actually met a clan of them a mere five day journey outside the city she truly believed the maker or whatever gods there where had brought her to a home. Of course it was hardly so simple. She never properly fit in with the Dalish, she may have become a proficient hunter and earned vallaslin, but couldn’t pronounce or even remember the name of the god it represented. A few tried to make her feel welcome among them, but they were never a family even after nearly 5 years. When word came that the clan was going to send hunters to help fight the darkspawn, Jodee decided adventure was one thing, fighting endless hordes of nightmare creatures because some ancient piece of parchment said she must was another and left the same night without telling a soul.

She made it as far as Highever on her own, and for a short time resorted to the tricks of her childhood to get by, but it was clear this was merely a temporary solution. Then as she was walking the docks a captain mistook her, dressed in ragged clothing and unkempt as she was, for a boy, one looking for work, and offered a position as a sailor. This was a stroke of luck and ‘Joden’ wasted no time regaling the captain of ‘his’ skill in star navigation. For two months she washed after some 40 men as they crossed the Waking Sea near a dozen times. For six more, she worked beside the navigation officer, stumbling her way through maps, and even learned a few of the most important words she was expected to know. After that it was discovered she was a girl and the captain, superstitious gout he was dropped her at the nearest port, Kirkwall, without her last week’s pay.

[fluorescent]

Evelyn

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.

[POOHEAD189]

Rannon Bryceford

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.

[Aquaknight]

Mikal Kadas

"Politics and lunatics and happy endings,
All they have in common is they're all pretending."

Name:
Mikal Kadas

Age
33

Gender:
Male

Race:
Dwarf

Class/Specialization:
Archer Rogue
Artificer

Appearance:
Mikal like the rest of his kind has a short and stocky frame which places him several heads shorter than most people in the room at any one time outside the pisshole that is Orzammar. He has long brown hair tied in a lazy half ponytail which hangs over his shoulders and has the bare minimum of facial hair for a Dwarf his age. He has dark brown eyes that always look shifty and scanning the area for traps and exits in emergencies. Mikal wears a complex yet light leather armor that protects him from daggers and small traps and explosions. Most of his body is free of scars and blemishes with the exception of his arms which has several small burns and cuts from learning how to make and use traps in his youth, he prides himself and his good looks and silky smooth hair so he does his best to keep these two clean and unscarred.


Abilities
Spike Trap:
Mikal sets down a deadly trap that explodes into a flurry of shrapnel when approached.

Elemental Mines:
Mikal throws a bunch of small grenades full of explosives that explode into different elements when enemies walk on them or near them.

Stealth:
Mikal the skilled Artificer that he is, is also skilled at sneaking around on the battle using the chaos that he creates to find cover and hide and set up more trap.

Shadow Strike:
Mikal has a very mean sucker punch. It nearly always hits enemies’ weak points for massive damage.

Throwing Blades:
While Mikal doesn’t use daggers, he does have a stash of small knives that he throws when bows and arrows take too long to load and fire.

Explosive Shot:
Mikal loves explosions too much not to make his arrows explode when he wants to.

Personality:
Mikal is incredibly competitive-about everything. He is always striving to be the best in everything even if he has little to knowledge about the topic in question. He is at his best intelligent, deft and resourceful. At his worst he can be spiteful, obnoxious and condescending. Mikal’s ambition to be the best means that when he gets hired by his most recent boss he will do everything in his power to make his new boss proud to have him as a hired hand, so he can be bit of a kiss ass and come off as needy and weak willed.

But on the battlefield Mikal is like a completely different person, while off it he is well spoken and calm, if a little bit of an opinionated jerk. Mikal is a vicious and hyper active fighter who is anxious to kill people and try out his new traps on witless enemies who are naïve to his deadly traps. He on the battlefield is an agent of chaos who will cause an insane amount of damage and chaos making it hard to keep track who is fighting who. But no matter what, there will be blood and explosions.

Origin:
I shall tell you the great and humble beginnings of ol’ Mikal Karas. I was once the fifth son and seventh child of Orzammar’s Noble house of Karas. I was the most handsome and intelligent of all my ugly and low brow siblings who could barely swing a sword in their hands without breaking their brutish hands. I taught myself how to use a bow and arrow as well as traps in secret for many years so I could one day prove the worth of a bow and arrow to my Family. But I would never know if they would’ve accepted my weapon of choice as the mass majority of my family was wiped out during the whole king deciding fiasco ended up with a rival noble house sent Carta assassins to wipe out my family since my parents agreed to back Prince Bhelen instead of Harrowmont, I personally never cared for politics, well up until I had assassins chase me out of Orzammar, so for my safety and the continued existence of the Karas name I left Orzammar in posthaste to the surface where I know the Assassin’s wouldn’t chase me off like some kind of Nug.

When I arrived to the surface I picked the worst possible time to go and become a surface dwarf, as you may have known not that long ago there was a blight about to wipe Ferelden off the map, so as soon as I could collect enough golds and coppers I left that wet and cold nug’s asshole of a country to the Free Marches where I found myself stranded and nearly copperless, it was a good thing I’m such a sneaky dwarf, the Templars didn’t even notice me when I sneaked past them, I guess Iwasn’t tall enough for them to care about me. Luckily for me a Dwarf with my set of skills is highly sought after, so I made a decent living off of making traps and killing people which I admit is pretty fun when you get into it like I have.

But I have to leave Kirkwall. For reason, very good reasons I can tell you that. That you do not need to know, I can assure you that. Nobody gotten hurt by my action… Well… not anybody I know.

Other:
He is Bisexual

[MiddleEarthRoze]

Feri

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.

[HurrFer]

Pretty Elf Boy: Naveen

Naveen

“Sure, my life isn’t perfect but my hair is.“

Name:
Naveen

Age:
35

Gender:
Male

Race:
Elf

Class/Specialization:
Reaver

Appearance:
It could be said that Naveen brushes his hair more times than an Orlisian before a ball. There is not one day that Naveen goes without brushing his hair, no matter what. His blonde hair looks almost like silk resting on his shoulder, not one knot to be seen. Just like his hair, the rest of him is well groomed. He may be clean shaven and neat but his face does wear scars of past battles, and one from a completely stupid accident. It bothered Naveen at first. The scars on his face were not pretty, but as time went by he grew accustomed to them decorating his face. To him, the many scars he wears now are badges of honor and dedication to the many things he has fought for and gained through the years. Naveen wears the vallaslin of Dirthamen, the elven god of secrets and knowledge. His eye is a bright shade of brown that resembles a cat’s in the sun. The other eye is white, like the snowy day he lost it a fight. And just like his people, Naveen is inches shorter than the average human. He doesn’t let that bother him because the war hammer strapped to his back intimidates people even when his face can’t do that for him. He is far too pretty to frown or scowl at people. He thinks he’ll get wrinkles faster that way.

Abilities:
-Pommel Strike
Lashes out with a fast strike that stuns enemies
-Mighty Blow
Delivers a powerful attack that crumples enemies, knocking them down for a short time
-Ring of Pain
Marks part of the battlefield and enemies inside the ring take spirit damage
-Devour
Rips into enemies, damaging them and healing one’s self.
-Dragon Rage
Launches an attacked that increases and one’s wounds deepen
-Rampage
Unstoppable fury of physical force, attacks are harder and faster, gaining health with each strike

Personality:
Naveen may not show many expressions but he sure can express himself with his mouth. He could make a sailor blush if he wanted to. When he was still in his clan he was the one they looked at first if something went wrong or if something. He was always the first one to blame. How could they not? Naveen had caused trouble since the first time he had opened his eyes to the world. He still acts like a child. He is blunt and direct. He acts like someone who wouldn’t lift a finger to help the people around him, only thinking of himself and no one else. If he has a goal, he always takes the easy way or the way that involves the less effort. Although he likes to keep his belongings organized he can be careless and even clumsy at times. Like the scar in on his chin. He had gotten careless and fell in the middle of a fight. In many occasions like that one he does not care for his surroundings and often charges without a thought. It is rare to see him concentrate or figure out a plan in his head. Because he is over confident in his ability as a warrior and a reaver is rash and impulsive in a fight or even in a conversation. People wouldn’t depend on Naveen if they didn’t know him, but one way or another he gets things done no matter what.
Naveen may seem friendly to people watching him from afar but he is far from that. He is as free with his hands as he is with his words. He doesn’t know what the concept of “personal space.” But if he doesn’t like someone he will let them know directly, there is no beating around the bush with him. Even with his friendliness and openness he could be suspicious of the people around him, it is rare for him to trust anyone but himself. Loyalty and trust come the same way for him. Both are hard to gain. He has lost most compassion because of those who he lost.

Origin:
Naveen was born to Clan Sabrae. It was said that his mother would not live through the pregnancy, but it seemed that the creators would not let her leave her family just yet. Naveen was praised by the clan and adored for his pretty eyes and face as a child. As he grew up the praising stopped whenever he caused trouble or scared the halla. Even with all the trouble he caused his parents they continued to care for him and teach him. His mother and father were both hunters in the tribe, skilled in both bow and arrow. They thought Naveen how to fight with daggers and how to shoot and arrow with perfect aim. He wanted to become a hunter like them, but before his 13th birthday he lost them both. A wolf pack attacked their clan and his parents were the first to defend the others. Naveen watched his parents pinned down and be devoured by their sharp teeth. After the attack Naveen stayed within the clan, never going out to hunt with a bow or even touch the daggers his mother had given him. By 16 he had finally picked up sword fighting from one of the warriors in the clan. He was better with it than he ever was with a bow or daggers. At the age of 18 he already had gained his vallaslin and knew how to swing and fight with a war hammer as tall as him. When he turned 20 an elven girl arrived to his clan seeking shelter and protecting. The clan took her in and it didn’t take her long to become one of them. It also didn’t take Naveen long for him to fall heels over her. After she gained her vallaslin they bonded and a few months after she became pregnant with his child. She died while giving birth to his child. Days later the little girl he had named after her mother died too. A week later he left the clan and traveled to Denerim, hoping to find any kind of job he could get.
While in Denerim he worked for high criminals or nobles who would pay anyone to do their dirty job. During that time Naveen didn’t care for anything. Not his looks not who contracted him or who he had to kill in order to get paid and eat that day. He lived like that for 5 years. Any coin he had to spare he’d waste it on brothels. He didn’t even care who he slept with, be it women or men. Everything was numb and stoic.
Naveen was 25 when he left Denerim at the first mentioned of an incoming Blight. On his travels to Orlais he met a woman in a small town. They were both the only one with pointy ears there and decided to stick together until they made it to the border of Orlais. She was kind and caring, she reminded him of the woman he loved. They became close during their travels and she thought him the way of the reaver. He spent a year there before moving on. He traveled up to the Free Marches to Antiva. He stayed there for a few years before returning to the Free Marches in search of a job.

Other:
Naveen can bake some mean pastries.
He can also shake his hips like a pro.

[Leos Klien]

Gerith’Talmerrin

"Gerith’Talmerrin"

"Tell me, what do you fear more? My axe? Or my shield? I’ll give you a hint; I’ve killed more with my shield.”"

_{Male Dalish Elf | 58 - Born 8:75 Blessed | Mythals Bulwark}

Basic Information:

Place of Origin:Unknown, through a random collection of drunken conversations it was somewhere near Nervarra.

Appearance:The word “Elf” brings along with it several stereotypes, almost all of them is something Gerith goes against, he is gruff, battle scarred, physically strong - you’d have an easier time associating him with a dwarf rather than an Elf.
Gerith stands at a height of 5’6, just above average height for an elf, he has a muscular physique, although it is slightly subtle, his small frame betrays his real strength.

His face is quite well formed despite his desire to charge head first into the fray of a battle, but this just professes his skill with a shield, the further away from the left half of his body you get the number of scars and blemishes on his body begin to grow, as this is his exposed side.
His face seems to don an almost permanent glower or scowl, his dark and prominent eyebrows that are formed so well it almost looks as if he plucks them only go on to make his face look as if it is always glaring at you.
Despite this he is quick to smile especially when the alcohol starts flowing.
Gerith’s eyes are a deep hazel that burn with intensity, sometimes it's difficult to understand whether or not you’ve wronged him in some way.

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.

Personality
If you wanted to be lazy about it and try and describe his personality in one word it would be abrasive.
Gerith’s personality is very much that, he will rub people the wrong way without a doubt merely by his mannerisms and his beliefs.
For a Merc he is oddly interested in hot topics of debate and discussion and brings an odd and misplaced sense of civility to discussions over drinks, that is until conflicts arise from separate beliefs and then before you know it someone tried to bury a blade through your hand; missed and killed some patron of the Hanged man, then before you know it there’s bar brawl and the place shuts for repairs for a week and two guys in the company have just been forcibly resigned.
That may have happened.
Maybe.

Other than being abrasive you could say that he has a “misaligned” moral compass, what he regards as acceptable others will certainly not - Blood magic? If he was a mage he’d use that in a heartbeat, nothing is too extreme if the end result is power or wealth, no doubt many Mercenaries may feel the same, the difference is whether or not they follow through with their boast.
Despite this, he knows when and when not to betray those he follows, they may yet serve some greater use down the line, and of course - friends and those he loves hold a special place in the void that would be his heart - when Gerith establishes a connection with someone, it is nearly unbreakable and he will fight to the very ends of Thedas to keep them safe.

Capabilities:

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.

Inventory:

Cash:12 sovereigns and a small pouch of change.

Clothing and Armour:
Gerith has two sets of attire, one would be his downtime wear, a clothing, designed for protection against the elements and comfort, it is made with antivan leather and a series of furs that lace the inside of it for warmth - typically Kirkwall is not exactly a chilly place, but coming from a very hot place such as Nevarra he finds the weather there miserable more often that not.
A dark brown leather overcoat, and a white linen shirt underneath it; he also wears matching leather jodhpurs with a set of leather boots - he likes leather, just not that way.

However when it comes to his battle wear its a different story - on his left side of the body he is covered from head to toe in thick heavy Veridium plate, his shoulder has a large pauldron affixed to it, that rises vertically and down from that is a series of plates that are interlinked, all the way to the menacing gauntlet that he wields his shield with.
This is a similar picture for the majority of his left side, the further right you go the less plate you see, instead it becomes a series of cloth and leather with bits of plate armour in vital points and as well as this another plated gauntlet that is wrapped around a war axe.

Weapon
A war axe made from Red steel and Ironbark - whilst not the weapon he uses all the time, Gerith cannot deny that having an axe by his side does indeed make him feel safer, it also has some utility with it as well, which is the main reason why he picks it over a sword.
Other than this there is nothing noteworthy about it.
Then.
There’s the shield.
A large, circular, silverite plate shield, that covers most of his body when he initiates his defensive stance - it’s surprisingly light for its size, although that doesn’t mean it still isn’t heavy, its design and metallic composition was made to allow the user fight for long as possible whilst still offering maximum protection and deflection.
It’s also enchanted, the reward for saving a blood mage that was on the run - the merc group got a decent pay from the job, but the maleficar offered a personal reward to the man who saved her.
The shield allows the user to empower it with their blood after losing so much it will be cast back at the foes in front of the shield, potentially killing them.


Potions and Arcane Supplies: Various healing potions and a few poisons.



Bags, Pouches, Packs: Various pouches containing things like salt, herbs, lyrium dust, and other various usable items, mostly for cooking or in the use of crafting potions.