[CHAR] Bullet Age (Dragon Age RP)

[CutUp]

Colt Rolin

Appearance

Wrong Side Of Heaven✧Outside✦My Demons✧Deadman's Gun✦What Makes A Good Man?✧Diamond Eyes

"Honey, I'm a bad, bad man."

The Basics

Name
Colt Rolin
Nickname
The Fennec, Scars
Gender
Male
Age
27
Race
Human
Class
Rogue

In The Mirror

Height
5'9
Weight
180 pounds
Hair Color
Black
Eye Color
Dark Green
Appearance
Colt is a slim, muscular, and wiry young man. He has long black hair, and chin strap beard. The first thing that is noticed about him is his deep scars on his face. He has two scars parallel to each other on his left cheek, and one scar on the bridge of his nose. He has a the Tevinter Imperium heraldry burned onto his inner right forearm, which he keeps covered with a red bandana. His usual attire is of light brown boots, dark brown pants with two pistol holsters on his hips, a white shirt underneath a dark brown leather vest. He also wears a very light weight, silver chest piece. He wears a pair of light brown leather gloves as well. He also wears a blue poncho over this that has the grey warden's symbol on it. He wears a musty, beat up old hat as well.

Beneath The Surface

Personality
Colt is often described as a gentlemen outlaw. He's a quick witted, brave, and genuinely good natured young man. He's fairly caring towards others, and is especially loyal, and dedicated to anyone he calls an ally. He is a resonably smart young man who excells at working on his feet, using his wit, and courage to get out of any, and all trouble he winds up in.

He's quite sarcastic, as he enjoys cracking jokes in even the most stressful of times, often at the expense of others. But it's usually in good nature. He is rather callous reaction to death, borderlining uncaring, which make him seem heartless. But it's merely a reaction to his lifestyle. Indeed, he can be quite kind, and caring of others, especially women, children, and those who suffer.

Though he doesn't have that much of a temper, when he is angered he is like a different person. Depending on what sets him off, he'll become more serious, and laser focused, almost like a machine. It's a scary thing for those that know him. He has a phobia of commitment. He will stop people he cares about from leaving him, but at the same time he keeps them at arms length, and distance himself repeatedly. He's merely fearful that they'd find something they don't like, and leave him alone.

He can have a slight distain towards mages, especially those of Tevinter. But he's not an outright bigot towards them. So long as they keep their distance, and don't bother him, they're cool as far as he's concerned. This all stims from his past as a Tevinter slave. It's all left a bad taste in his mouth for them.

What Makes Me Special

Specialization
Marksman and Tempest
Weapons

• Revolvers- His main weapons are dual revolvers.
• Daggers- He also wields a pair of curved daggers.

Strengths

• Tempest - As a Tempest Colt is an adept alchemist, being able to create elemental bombs.
• Marksman - Colt is able to ricochet his bullets off of varies surfaces, being able to perform seemingly impossible shots.
• Agility - Colt is naturally quick, and nimble on his feet, being able to perform free-running techniques.
• Coercion - Colt is a very cunning individual, being able to talk his way in, or out of nearly any situation.
• Good Natured - Colt is at his core a good person. Though this is buried underneath mountians of sarcasism, and thrill seeking. He'll do his best to protect those he believes need, and deserve to be protected.

Weaknesses

• Commitment - He has a hard time with commitment, and staying in one place for a long time.
• Alchoholic - He's a funcional alchoholic, but still an alchoholic.
• Smoking - It's a nasty habit really.
• Caring - His caring nature can get the best of him, as he's unwilling, and unable to make a hard choice in sacrificing someone else.
• Patience - He's not the patient sort, and hates waiting around.

Skeletons In The Closet

History
Colt Rolin was born, and raised in the Tevinter Imperium Capital of Minrathous as a slave to a rather powerful Magister. Despite being in the middle of a slave rebellion, slavery was still a big part of Tevinter culture. But rebelling for him was a pipe dream, his master made it so. His mother was a slave, as was his father. His father died when he was young from the experiments that his master loved to perform on his slaves.

When he was in his teenage years, he and his mother accompanied his master to one of Tevinter's other settlements on business. They were attacked by the rebels on the road there. It was a bloody battle, many of those that accompanied his master had died in the crossfire, including his mother. Colt was knocked unconscious by an explosion, and when he came too he was taken in by the rebels.

At first it was a difficult transition at first. At his core he was still a slave, a slave that had never imagined escaping. But he eventually managed to accept his new life, his freedom. And he found himself loving it. He began helping the rebels in their war against the Vints. And he proved to adept at combat, and a real fast learner. It was eventually decided that he best serve the effort outside of Tevinter.

And so Colt became a smuggler. He went to the various countries, smuggling weapons back to Tevinter, as well as sending mercenaries to help them. He got the weapons by performing mercenary work, and other less than legal jobs for others. And he was quite good too. He became highly sought after. He would soon become known as the Fennec, for his wily ways.

But eventually he was caught in Orlais. He was to be executed for his many, many crimes by the Empire. But no prison was a match for him, and he escaped Orlesian custody. It was short lived however, as the Orlesian Cavaliers found him. He was forced to outrun them, and actually fought a few of them. As he was leaving Val Royeaux he was stopped by a Grey Warden passing by.

The Grey Warden was a small Elven girl, probably weighing less than eighty pounds soaking wet. So he thought he could take her. He was wrong. The woman moved like he had never seen, and easily bested him. But she was impressed by his abilities, and involked her right of conscription.

[January]

Tythius

Appearance

The Clockyard // Tribal Nomad // The Circus At The End of The World // Pity The Free Man //
Steampunk Revolution // I'm Glad I Lost You

"I'm just a sexy riddle wrapped in an enigma sandwiched between a conundrum and a mystery."

The Basics

Name
Tythius
Nickname
(Among "business associates") Chatterbox
(Among close acquiantances) Ty (pronounced like "tie")
Gender
Male
Age
24
Race
Human
Class
Rogue

In The Mirror

Height
168 cm
Weight
58 kg
Hair Color
Hazelnut
Eye Color
Jade
Appearance
Toned and slender, though slightly underweight for his height, Tythius considers himself in top form for pickpocketing, petty thievery, and minor arson--mainly because he can prance away from the scene of the crime faster than any of his pursuers. When not cloaked-and-daggered for shady schemes, Tythius enjoys browsing shops in a simple white tunic with front lacing and decorative black stitching on the sleeves coupled with close-fitting, dark gray breeches tucked into a pair of scuffed, knee-high boots that have seen more than its fair share of wear and tear--they're so dirty he can barely discern their original color ("Maybe these boots were black when I first bought them?"). In ornery weather, he throws a sturdy, well-worn mantle over his usual ensemble, enjoying the contrast between the mantle's black dye and the tunic's white fabric.

If he has his rifle with him, his artificer toolkit will also be equipped as his gear is stowed in a large, rectangular box with multiple tiers--the top tier houses the bolt-action rifle, scope, shoulder straps, and the rarely-used bipod while the lower tier consists of varied compartments filled with bullets, traps, mines, powders, strange liquids, and what-have-yous. Tythius either carries the box against his side, its strap slung over his shoulder, or strapped vertically against his back. When questioned, he tends to open only the lower tier and select compartments, claiming he's a traveling pharmacist/alchemist, depending on the situation.

While not the most beautiful man in Thedas, Tythius has broken enough hearts to realize he's attractive enough for many women (and some men!), though he swears prostitutes simply don't have hearts and that women hath no wrath like a lady (or gentleman!) of the night scorned. His brothel dilemmas stem from a heart-shaped face accentuated by strong cheekbones and a slender jawline while thin lips constantly curled into a smirk emphasize a coy mischievousness that promises an alluring adventure under the sheets. After trying out various hairstyles, he's finally settled on an angular fringe cut with short sides that fade out to a tapered back he was too lazy to deal with which currently reaches past his shoulder blades. ("Look, when I grow eyes on the back of my head, I'll make that tail look good.")

When dealing with the inevitable pillow talk after every kinky escapade Tythius tends to skirt smoothly around any inquiries behind the vivid scars along his neck, around his thighs, and the undersides of his arms--evasions made easier by his inability to speak.

Beneath The Surface

Personality
Tythius hides his general distrust of people behind a well-worn facade of jovial mischief. Cheerful and easily amused--though a little self-deprecating--what he lacks in verbal communication he more than makes up for in gesticulations and facial expressions. With the look of someone who wears his heart on his forehead, Tythius is often mistaken for a happy bumpkin instead of the cold-hearted mercenary he actually is. While mellow in casual situations, he will not hesitate to kill anyone in his way of completing a job, whether they be man, woman, or child. His lack of social tact, however, tends to wear on people and he often finds himself alone despite all his merry frolicking in taverns and inns. While not expecting much from his superficial personality display, Tythius is still deeply hurt when he winds up all alone again despite his best efforts to present a welcoming countenance.

Tythius is actually an excellent cook, though he prefers mooching from a ready meal instead of making his own. His laziness hides a meticulous precision when it comes to work or maintaining his tools of the trade and when the lights and sounds of company have faded into the sighs of sleep, he'll often be awake cleaning his rifle or tinkering with more traps. The silence of the night makes him think too much, however, and provokes a surprising amount of self-pity for his current state of affairs--living contract-to-contract simply because he doesn't have the ambition to be anything more than what he is. At that thought, he'll often abruptly stop his busywork to try and sleep, only to find himself wide awake and tinkering all over again. There are nights when sleep simply doesn't come to him.

After losing his voice, he keeps a journal of amusing events, daily musings, and any passing thoughts that interest him. He is afraid he'll one day forget the sound of his own voice and does his best to read over his thoughts in his spare time to remind himself of what he probably sounded like. His overt displays of emotions are his attempts to compensate for being unable to properly speak with others anymore, and, despite his carefree attitude, he does care greatly about being misunderstood. His journal is also filled with bits of poetry he sometimes attempts to write in an effort to feel like he has more talents than simply killing people and monsters. Somewhere in the pages, he did once wish for a lifelong friend, though that line was vigorously scribbled out some time later and blots of ink smudges dot the page like someone had been crying.

What Makes Me Special

Specialization
Marksman and Artificer
Weapons

• Bolt-action sniper rifle.
• Daggers.
• Various traps and contraptions (spike traps, rope traps, smoke bombs, caltrops, poisoned weapons, elemental mines, etc.)

Strengths

• Skilled at setting up traps and bunkering down for the long haul.
• Ruthless--He's not as nice as he seems and won't hesitate to kill innocents if they're in the way.
• Eagle-eyed--To last long in an increasingly dangerous world, Tythius had to get damn good at spotting his marks from ridiculous distances or risk losing his range and surprise advantage.
• High pain tolerance--He's been through torture a few times when jobs have gone to shit. Now he's mute and no amount of torture will elicit even a peep.
• Expert marksman--Tythius is as much a master of the bolt-action rifle as his unofficial instructor was and can hit targets from seemingly inhuman ranges. In more complicated situations, he'll load a lighter bullet for ricochet work.
• Innovative tinker--As an artificer, Tythius knows how to make and set enough traps to wipe entire groups of unaware enemies stupid enough to chase after him.
• Nimble and flexible--And more than just in bed. Besides a light frame and high agility, Tythius can contort his body (much to his bedfriends' shocked displeasures) and dislocate joints at his convenience, which has saved him from many captive situations.

Weaknesses

• Mute--A botched contract (that he didn't even get paid for!) permanently damaged his vocal cords and left him mute. He can make noises that do not require explicit use of the vocal cords (such as grunts and moans), but even those are rather strained.
• Low physical strength--Tythius does not lift, nor does he intend to.
• Low stamina--Tythius's cardio is better than average simply as a result of his profession, but compared to warriors and such, he's pathetic.
• Mediocre knife-fighter--While he opened his mercenary days with a pair of daggers, he was never particularly skilled with them and now uses them only when he has to. Dagger-wise, he wouldn't even be a challenge to anyone specializing in light blades.
• Reload time of rifle leaves him vulnerable--While breech loading has certainly improved the time between shots, aiming after a reload still leaves Tythius vulnerable for a good 2-5 seconds after every shot.
• Doesn't know how to use any large melee weapons--He simply never found greataxes or swords compelling.
• Attack efficiency limited by ammunition supply--Tythius has decided that if a battle ever drags on long enough that he completely runs out of ammunition, he'll just have to resort to chucking elemental mines in the enemy's general direction and hoping they're dumb enough to step on them.

Skeletons In The Closet

History
Restless and trigger-happy, Tythius has long worked as a mercenary and jobs are now more plentiful than ever as the world bursts at its seams with strife and political turmoil. A dead politician here and there and a well-guarded one in some safe corner kept the landlady off his back (and out of his bed) while small-time theft kept him going between jobs. Growing up in the slums of Denerim didn't exactly enamor Tythius to the ruling class and he started his life of crime at 10 years of age by ruining the trailing skirts of noblewomen and breaking the wheels on parade carts. His family found his troublemaking, well, troublesome and left him in the care of a negligent uncle before moving elsewhere in the hopes of a better life. He hasn't heard from them since and doesn't care to, even going so far as to pretend he doesn't have a family name.

When his uncle racked up a little too much debt against the wrong parties, Tythius found himself without a home and a caretaker, forced to steal and hide to survive. In doing so, he wound up running with a small band of thieves that slowly merged into a large mercenary band with contracts and clients spanning several cities, eventually taking on jobs that involved more dead people than stolen heirlooms and realizing he had less friends in this cutthroat organization than he did as an urchin on the street.

But even mercenaries feel camaraderie and after a year of slavish work Tythius had grown close to a fellow mercenary nicknamed Trick. While Tythius never found out Trick's real name, the man had an uncanny talent for the bolt-action rifle and often took work in tandem with Tythius's jobs. Only later did Tythius understand that Trick had been keeping him safe on jobs he was vastly underqualified to complete, ensuring there were never too many enemies for the inexperienced teenager to handle. Before long, the two became close friends, often sharing swill in a tavern over comforting small talk before Trick eventually suggested--every time, without fail--that they head out and do some target practice, teaching Tythius the ins-and-outs of the rifle and situations to avoid when using it on a job.

The rifle, however, was not the reason Trick earned his nickname. The man was an artificer of the highest caliber, earning himself the nickname when he led a large group of guards on a wild goose chase through Denerim as trap after trap picked off his pursuers until the final few were finished off by several lyrium bullets through the skulls. In hearing that story, Tythius had insisted on learning the craft and Trick had reluctantly obliged, as a doting father would to a child, while introducing Tythius to the merchants and contacts that would be his suppliers of artificer materials and lyrium ammunition from that day forward. The makeshift family, however, didn't last long. In the perpetually increasing chaos of the Bullet Age, jobs naturally became deadlier as the world slowly grew more and more inhospitable. Many of the urchins Tythius once stole bread and butter with were killed on jobs while others were shot dead for attempting to run from the organization's generous benefaction after all the trouble they went through to take care of kids off the street.

On an ambitiously solo contract to hunt down a renegade noble mage before the family's reputation suffered for it and before the Templars caught wind of it, Tythius never realized Trick had tailed him deep into the Brecilian Forest with the intention of keeping the young merc safe from both the mage and the dangers of the forest itself. When Tythius finally cornered the mage, he came face to face with an abomination born out of fear and desperation. In the ensuing chaos of battle, the abomination dragged the young mercenary back even as he desperately scrabbled to escape, its claws vise-like around his legs as it prepared to tear him to pieces. Trick's pinpoint precision with a bullet stunned the creature in time to save Tythius's life, but not in time to prevent it from tearing into his throat. As Trick's bullets decimated the abomination while it stumbled towards the artificer and his many traps, Tythius could think of nothing but the hot blood rushing out of his body from the gash on his throat to the deep lacerations on his legs to the torn and jagged skin left on his arm as a result of trying in vain to crawl to safety. When a final bullet finished the creature for good, Tythius lost consciousness, waking up a week later in a small inn with his room already paid for and injuries tended to, only to find out in a burst of panic that he was no longer able to speak. Trick was nowhere to be found and a terrified maid reported--after Tythius had finally calmed down--that his companion had left a day ago. Only then did Tythius realize that Trick had left behind his toolkit and rifle, with no indication of where he had gone.

After searching in vain, Tythius's return to the mercenary headquarters in Denerim resulted in an interrogation as Trick's disappearance lengthened into desertion. By the time the dust settled, there was a bounty on Trick's head and Tythius was finally released from the interrogation chambers once they were convinced he truly knew nothing of the older man's disappearance. Without any other means of earning income, especially with the loss of his voice, Tythius remained with the mercenary organization, much to his chagrin, though he took up Trick's rifle and toolkit as his own, practicing until he was skilled with both methods of combat. Taking his silence to mean his obedience, Tythius's associates assigned him most of the leftover jobs--ones other mercenaries found too risky or low-paying to be worth their effort. With little choice in the matter, he simply nodded and agreed, risking life and limb for people who saw him as simply another expendable warm body. As job after job came and went, a nagging fear in the back of his mind eventually broke the surface of his forced serenity: the realization that his experiences had shaped nothing for him--no epiphany, no purpose, no reason to live. He was only alive in the barest sense of the word, going through the motions of the only work he knew how to accomplish. When Grey Wardens passed through Denerim as talk of a Sixth Blight spread throughout the taverns, Tythius begged to be conscripted, desperately scribbling his request on a piece of parchment the Grey Warden produced after much confusion and gesticulation.

"If I am to die in battle, let it be with a purpose I chose. Make me a Warden."

[McHaggis]

.

[Virani]

Cora Vallon

Appearance

"Peacekeeper" by Fleetwood Mac

"If it hurts its your own fault for being an idiot."

The Basics

Name
Cora Vallon
Nickname
None
Gender
Female
Age
25
Race
Human
Class
Mage

In The Mirror

Height
5'9
Weight
140 lbs
Hair Color
Dark Red
Eye Color
Blue
Appearance
Much to Cora's dismay the first thing that people, particularly men, notice about her is that she is quite curvaceous. She has a medium build and was endowed with an ample bust and hips giving her a distinctly hour glass figure. Given this no one has ever called her delicate or dainty instead she hears terms like statuesque, striking or even handsome. Her skin is smooth and has not scars or tattoos, her scars are on the inside.

She is not pretty, her mouth being a little too large and her eyes a little too wide for that, but she has an attractiveness about her. Her dark blue eyes, pale skin and dark red hair lend an air of mystique to her face that takes her from ordinary to striking. Her dark red hair is long, reaching well past her shoulder blades, and is more often than not worn loose or in a simple braid.

Cora is usually seen in woolen dresses in darker shades of blue, green, brown or grey. Though simple, almost plain, in style they are well made and well fitted and as such compliment her figure nicely. She does not wear armour, having never felt particularly comfortable in it, and relies instead on her magic to aid her in surviving. She is rarely seen without her sturdy black walking boots and hooded dark grey cloak.

Beneath The Surface

Personality
Cora is someone who has spent a lot of her life either on the run or controlled and because of this she is very strong willed, stubborn and independent. She has never been one to give in or lie down and accept her fate simply because it was the easier choice, she will fight to the bitter end and will do so with a grin on her face if she manages to take her enemies down with her. She comes across to others as direct with a no nonsense attitude and a self confidence bordering on arrogance. She has a fearsome temper that is quick to flare up but thankfully it is equally quick to die down again.

Like most people however this is her facade, her mask for hiding her vulnerabilities and insecurities. Underneath she is self conscious and somewhat insecure. She has not had many lasting relationships with other people and this has made her believe herself to be something of an outcast. Consequently she keeps others at a distance and actively discourages anyone who tries to get close to her. After all she might have to run again and it only hurts more if she got too close before doing so.

However if you can get her to open up to you then you will discover a warm and vibrant woman with her own sense of fun and mischief hidden beneath her prickly exterior. She can be opinionated and somewhat judgmental with first impressions being very hard for her to change. But over time she will somewhat reluctantly acknowledge she was wrong about someone. She is also a passionate healer and will always try and heal those who need it, but always with a healthy dose of her sharp tongue. Her bedside manner is somewhat lacking but she more than makes up for it in skill.

What Makes Me Special

Specialization
Gunsmith/Spirit Healer

Weapons
Staff - deliberately simple in design.
Revolver - Backup weapon again simple.
Both look worn and well used but good quality.

Strengths
Confident - Cora comes across as confident and self assured and this often works in her favor with people deferring to her and she can often use this to talk her way out of difficulty.

Spirit Healer - Cora is adept at magical healing as well as healing via plants etc and she can make potions if the need arises.

Gunsmith - Cora is a strong gunsmith who is quite capable of using this to defend herself.

Strong willed - Cora is self taught and has been resisting demons all her life and therefore has a particularly strong will. She is not easily manipulated, coerced or possessed via magical means.

Determined - Cora will not give up, end of. If she is healing someone and there is battle going on all around her then she will stay where she is until her patient is either saved or dead. This also translates to a calmness in a crisis.

Weaknesses
Melee Combat - Cora is a mage and as such she has no skills in close range combat. If an enemy gets close and breaks through her magic then she's dead.

Short tempered - Cora can fly off the handle very easily and this can make her an unpredictable ally in any situation.

Unarmoured - Cora does not wear armour and is physically weak having had no training in building strength or muscle mass.

Healer - Cora is at heart a healer first and mage second and therefore dislikes harming others if she can help it. She will defend herself and those she is with but will often try to avoid outright killing anyone, other than darkspawn, and if she does end up killing someone it affects her deeply and for a long time.

Proud - Cora is a fiercely proud and independent person who finds it next to impossible to ask for help or admit she cannot do something. This means she can end up in situations that are seriously out of her depth.

Skeletons In The Closet

History
Cora was born in Ferelden, specifically in Highever, her parents were well known and well respected Merchants who sold goods in both Highever and Denerim. Cora had a younger brother, Caymen, and the two of them were very close. During her youth Cora was different, she was much more openly passionate wearing her emotions on her sleeve. She was known for her deep love for her family and for her fearsome temper which was quick to flare up and equally quick to die down.

When Cora was fifteen she discovered her ability with magic but unlike some hers was not a pain free discovery, she and her brother were arguing as siblings were wont to do when Cora lost her temper. She remembers little of what happened after except for her brothers screams which haunt her nights even now years later. She had killed him with magic and thus her life was changed forever. Her parents discovering what she had done were stricken with grief and fear and sent for the templars. As she was taken away Cora remembers how her parents would not look at her.

Brought to the reservation in Ferelden Cora had a difficult time both with controlling her magic and accepting her life in the reservation. By the time she was eighteen many of her teachers and mentors had despaired of ever getting through to her and many thought it best she be made Tranquil. Cora discovered this and realised that she would have to at least appear to accept her role and become a biddable mage. And so she turned things around, for the next two years, becoming a model student and earning the trust and respect of those around her. She passed her Harrowing without incident and continued to study until she was given the coveted prize of being allowed to leave the reservation to travel with a group of mages to Denerim.

Cora had never given up on freedom, her independent spirit constantly chafed at the restrictions placed upon her, and she saw this as her chance. She found her phylactery, after a great deal of time and effort, and destroyed it ensuring no one knew she had done so. She then left on her journey with the other mages, but as soon as they camped for the night and the others were asleep she left them fleeing south. She has been on the run for five years now, always watching over her shoulder and never staying in one place too long. She traveled a great deal always afraid of the Templars catching up with her. She spent time in the Korcari Wilds, Kirkwall and the Free Marches and even spent a little time in Antiva.

She survived by running underground healing centers in larger towns and cities or by selling the potions that she brewed herself. After living in Tevinter for the last year aiding the slave rebellion with her skills, Cora had returned to Ferelden after a narrow escape from several Tevinter Magisters. She now feared Magisters might well be chasing her as well as Templars and realised that she needed some kind of security against them. She saw the recruitment poster for the Grey Wardens and petitioned to join them. They did not hesitate to accept, uncaring of her status as an apostate, and Cora has dared to wonder if she might have finally found her place.

[Howler]

Silas

Appearance

Bang Bang Bang | Oh Darling, What Have I Done | GUNS+AMMUNITION | Fury, Oh Fury

The Basics

Name: Sylvanus Brutus
Nicknames: Smiley, "Silas", The Mule
Gender: Male
Age: 40
Race: Human
Class: Warrior

In The Mirror

Height: 6'1''
Weight: 245 Lbs
Hair Color: Black
Eye Color: Grey
Appearance:

Some men are giants. You look up to them because you don't have a choice and you move out the way when they pass because they're sure as hell not stopping, and Silas has been a giant since he was two feet tall. There are bigger men, and heavier, but they're few and far between and not a one of 'em's half the hitter Silas is. Not a thing on him gives an inch from his steel-shod feet to his squared off chin, and if you don't like it you, you can kiss it. Broad as a doorway, Silas doesn't try to capitalize on his bulk because he doesn't need to. You'll see him in blacks, greys and whites in the kind of clothes you can pick up anywhere--cotton tunics with the sleeves rolled up past forearms the size of an elf's thigh, dark trousers, heavy work boots. Black longcoats lined with metal and heavy enough to bring a grown man to the floor. A hat to keep the rain off his head or tuck over his eyes for a nap, but no matter how dressed down he thinks he's rolling there's never a doubt in anyone's mind that this was a man built for blood.

Silas is a sculpture of the old tradition, the ones carved roughshod from stone and built to last. You can still see the hammer-blow genetics at work in his strong, square jaw, his sharp cheekbones, his thin-lipped, too-wide mouth. Without jowls or softness or extra skin, there is something solid about him that is hard to find elsewhere, but if you asked him his favorite feature (and actually got him to answer) he'd admit that he's awful proud of his hands. Big for his size, meaty with muscle and rife with little scars from use, his mitts are like everything else about him--rough and powerful, and he likes it that way. Hands say a lot about a man, and Silas' do an awful lot more talking than he does.

He has scars, same as any. Less than you might think, more than most. The one at his lip, where a miner in Tevinter shattered a bottle over his face, is the most noticeable but he doesn't seem to mind. He has tattoos, too, but not many people see them. The few that peak out, crawling up his forearms, are the more vicious Andrastian versus in dark, crabby lettering.

Beneath The Surface

Bakers bake bread. They wake up Maker only knows how early, every damn day, and bake bread. They bake loaves of rye or wheat or sourdough, they dust it with flour or oats or this or that. They burn their hands on their ovens and swear when they do. They lather, rince and repeat this every morning, every day, for the rest of their lives, until they die. To Silas, there isn't much difference between a baker and a soldier.

Only it's a soldier's job to make corpses, not bread. Not that different.

Silas is so angry he doesn't know how not to be anymore. It sunk in marrow-deep early and festered like sepsis, just as sick and just as ugly. He's mad at Tevinter for what it's brought good people to, he's mad at the revolting slaves because of what they've become, and he's mad at himself because in the end he knows better than to think he's any different. You spend your life fighting monsters and one day you wake up and see one in the mirror, and that's the realization that scared Silas halfway to hell (and he doesn't scare easy). It's a hard thing to wake up one day and realize that all you see around you is filth, that you don't believe in decent people anymore, but it happened. As far as he's concerned, the Blight is the best thing that could have happened to him--give him something so fucking Evil that he can enjoy who he is, that he doesn't have to hold back anymore, and all of a sudden things get an awful lot simpler. The fact that it comes with a death sentence is just icing on the cake.

In truth, Silas isn't a bad man. It'd be so much easier if he was, but even now he can't stand to see someone strong pick on someone weak for the fun of it. He doesn't know how to live a life where he doesn't kick the teeth out of every asshole who pulled a knife on a man instead of worked for his damn living just like he doesn't know how not to push back harder. If you can catch him at a good moment, or if he honestly believes you're one of the good guys, he eases up. He's a surprisingly gentle hand with women and children, and in his downtime he carves little sculptures, whittles himself some lovely woodwork.

He tries not to talk about it.

What Makes Me Special

Specializations: Reaver, Demo

Weapons

7:12
A "sawed off" shotgun, Andraste 7:12 is Silas' favorite. Lever-actioned with a reinforced stock and grip, the weapon takes a lickin' and keeps on tickin' and is Silas' last line of defense. Loaded as it is with his custom made explosive shot, by the time someone gets close enough for him to use it they'd best have done their praying--there's not usually much left but a finger or some teeth, a thought that makes Silas all warm inside.

Benedictions
A big gun. A big damn gun. One of Tevinter's answers to the question of fire superiority, the Benedictions series heavy-repeater is a dwarven made gatling gun that held back the darkspawn assault on Orzammar long enough to evacuate most of the cities' population. Most would consider it a mounted turret, and with its tripod bracing on the bottom its certainly well-used as one, but most people also don't have Silas' strength. It's big, heavy, unwieldy and takes a while to get set up, but once it's up and rolling it can turn any mid-ranged battlefield into an abattoir for as long as it has ammunition.

Pride
Named for the pride the Tevinter weaponsmiths had in their arms or in irony of the revolting slaves, depending on who you ask, the Pride series repeaters are well-kept repeating rifles that do their job and do it well. Silas' only true precision weapon, it doesn't have the flash of the 7:12 or the raw power of Benedictions, but in many ways that makes it more dangerous. With enough power to punch through a chevalier's armor at range and enough accuracy to shoot where you point it, Silas' has seen hardened veterans sob in the mud after being brought low by proper Tevinter marksmen.

Hammer
It's a war-hammer. One handed, ready to bloody up someone who gets to close. The pick on the rear can punch through armor or haul a chevalier off his horse, the business end can crush a skull or take off a jaw without the bat of an eye. No, it doesn't have a bloody name--who names a hammer?

Strengths

As a Damn Ox - Silas is strong. Really strong. He's stopped charging qunari in their tracks, ripped turrets from their placements and tossed aside men like kindling. They call him the Mule because once upon a time, when the supply wagon's trusty steed went down, Silas took up its charge without missing a beat.

Hold the Line - Silas is tough. Really tough. Even if he's not on the front lines in the shield wall not a man alive can knock him down and Maker help you for trying. Blessed is the man who tries to break through Silas--or he'd better be.

Just Makin' him Mad - Silas doesn't mind pain. Or blood. He's had enough of both, and all it does these days is piss him off. There's also something...not quite right about him. He goes on longer than he should, gets worse the more he's hurt. There's stories of reavers, sure, but when you really see one you...well. You don't really want to see one.

Heavy Weapons Guy - Big enough to hold them, strong enough to wield them, Silas' is a heavy weapons man through and through. You can keep your fancy little pistols or your pop-shot bolt actions, Silas' likes things with a bit more bang for their buck. Or more than a bit, really. Well versed in the war uses of lyrium, you'll know when Silas joins a fight when things go all to pieces. Literally.

One Man's Cheat... - ...is another man's tactics. Silas' is used to fighting outnumbered if not necessarily outgunned, and he fights like a bastard. Sure he likes drawing the battle lines from where he's standing, but when push comes to shove he knows full well that a toppled tower or a burried satchel of lyrium rigged to blow will even odds an awful lot faster than warcries.

Weaknesses

When All You Have is a Hammer... - ...everything looks like a nail, and Silas was born with two hammers. They're called his fists. It's not that he's dumb so much as he's direct--he fixes problems by getting rid of them, solves fights by finishing them. If you didn't want one, that was your problem.

Big Man, Big Target - As established, Silas' isn't subtle. When he's on the field, you'll notice him--and if you're smart, you'll deal with him. He's not the easiest man to take down but by the Maker you'll want to, and every man has his limits.

Temper, Temper... - Call it the dragon in him, call it a hard knock life, whatever it is it's a bad temper. It's not hard to piss Silas off, and if he's pissed off it's not hard to get him to start swinging. He's a good tactician, but in the heat of battle when the bullets are flying and the blood is up you should stick to the plan and not to him--he's as likely as not to charge in and get messy as he is to hold his ground.

Hold the Goddamn Line - Silas doesn't retreat. If you want him to leave a fight unfinished you better be goddamn dying.

A Little Thing Called Decency - On a battlefield, Silas' isn't what you call scrupulous. Off of it, or once the killing's over, a man has to have standards. He doesn't like to kill women and he doesn't like to kill children, and he doesn't like letting others do it either. Of course, with his temper...

Skeletons In The Closet

Once, a lifetime ago, Silas was going to be a baker.

Growing up in Tevinter during the very beginning of the slave revolts wasn't easy, but he got by. A big kid from a middling Soporati family, Silas was one of the people that everyone forgets exists in the Imperium--the normal ones. The kind that wake up every day and bake like Silas' parents did. They weren't mages, they weren't rich, they weren't even really poor. They were just...people.

He had all the pitfalls and pleasures of childhood that anyone does. He ran with the local kids and threw apples at the slaves and didn't cry when he skinned his knees because boys don't cry. The whispers of revolution didn't mean a thing to him, and his family kept their heads down and did their jobs. Rich, poor, slave or magister, everyone eats and everyone eats bread, so Silas' family scraped by the way they always had. His brother, several years older than he, became a Legionnaire after a messy fight with his father about it. Words were thrown, as was a fist or two considering whose family it was, but all Silas remembered about it was watching both men cry and feeling embarrassed and sad.

He didn't want to be a legionnaire. He didn't really want much of anything, really, except to not have to be the one to clean out the ovens and maybe get that Cassia girl from down the road to kiss him on more than the cheek. Having just learned how to get the perfect amount of rye in the dough and keep the oats on the top from burning, life was looking up for young Silas before the slaves really revolted and everything went to Hell.

What is there to say? It was a revolt. No one thought it would be bloodless, but if they knew how it was going to go down then they deserved exactly what happened to them. It wasn't slaves versus magisters, it wasn't Legionnaires versus slaves, it was bedlam. Bullets shattered windows and lives, firebombs burned out buildings with families' like Silas'. Elves picked up hammers and axes and fucking kitchen knives and took the fight to anyone without pointed ears, fathers knocked down anyone that tried to walk through their doors. That's what Silas' father did, at least, until an elf that could barely shave pulled out a stolen revolver and blew him away.

What happened after that was mostly a blur as far as Silas is concerned. He remembers turning that elf's face into a smear on the cobblestones, and seeing broken teeth, and that the only way to keep everyone safe was to be so goddamn terrifying that no one would dare come near him and his. By the time the Legionnaires showed up and put the riot down properly it took two of them to get him to the ground and one of them didn't walk straight for a week afterwards. His parents were dead, his younger sister couldn't look at him anymore, and his tolerable little world was gone. No more kisses from Cassia.

At least they broke the damn oven.

He could probably have joined the Legionnaires, but he didn't. They were the official response, the last ones to the fight, and that wasn't good enough for Silas. There was that awful something inside that bashing that poor elf's head in woke up, and the only way to shut it up was by busting more heads. In the new Imperium that was reacting to the growing slave revolt the Praesumptors, yesterday's shadowy band of thieves and thugs, became strikebreakers and merchant security, and they had all kinds of use for a man with an axe to grind. That was Silas' life for the last...well, until the Warden showed up, really.

He'd done some things by then. Some really bad things. He'd killed and killed and...well. Killed some more. If the dragon inside him wasn't done with it all then Silas was--you can only fight an enemy for just so long without learning about them, and Silas wasn't stupid. These were poor people in a poor situation being ground down by an empire who couldn't get off their fat asses to treat them decently long enough to keep themselves from getting knifed by their chambermaid. And he was killing them, in droves, because he was too stupid to think of anything else to do.

It ended like all those stories do. He and a squad of strikebreakers were holding the line for a merchant family as they escaped their mine with whatever they could load up on the cart when there were just...too many of them. He fought hard, did his damage, but in the end they brought him and his down and started the executions. His companions snapped and snarled, 'you filth' this and 'long live the Imperium' that, but Silas just stared. Burned a hole in the ground with his eyes. Even if he didn't hate the slaves anymore, he sure hated that they could go on about freedom when they killed free families because some wizards in their fucking towers were too hard to hit.

Then she came along. She was an elf, like most of the others, but also more than that. He could see it in her eyes that this wasn't her war, that this was child's play to what was going to come. When she knelt down and looked at him, and told him he could die from a pickax or die killing darkspawn--the real monsters--it wasn't a hard choice.