Sitting out in the open in the middle of a wooded clearing with nothing but the night sky to stair for entertainment Flint did his best to pass the time. Only like usual Flints luck was almost comicly bad, a heavy downpour of rain smacking him in the face any time he dared look up at the twinkling dancing gems above. He had to admit, every ounce of him wanted to scurry off into a nearby cave he'd spotted on the trek here, after all there was nothing more comforting to the old dwarf than a large stone ceiling overhead.
He'd set up camp in the small clearing in the middle of nowhere deep off of the shores of the coastland about four days out of Amaranthine. Honestly he hated the place, the rolling black clouds in the sky seemingly never broke casting a strange eerie depressing mood throughout the vast wilderness he sat in. And the damned rain came and went at a moments notice, a fact that was almost completely unbearable due to the already chilly climate.
Despite how much the cave was begging for him to enter Flint sat there shivering with stereotypical Dwarven stubbornness. His orders from Spy Master Lelliana had been clear and he would not deviate from them, whether that was due to respect or a very healthy fear of the Spy Master was hard to tell. Nonetheless he had been dispatched to meet up with a small group of fellow members of the Inquisition, something he'd been doing more and more in the recent months and he wholeheartedly planned on following her orders to a T.
With the mage rebellion in full swing there had been more and more reports coming in of what had only been described to Flint as 'Dangerous Maleficur Activity'. Yet despite his gruff looking exterior Flint was no idiot, he was well aware that when it came mages they were simply people, and just like people there were good ones, bad ones, and then the kind that just needed to be wiped off the face of Thedas. The later of the three is what Flint had been tasked with combating on almost a daily basis, a feat he had become better and better at over the last few months-And with the Templars doing their seemingly best to kill everyone and everything except those who actually warranted their attention Flints talents had become more and more in demand as of late.
Like most Dwarfs Flint's battle scarred features were hidden behind a thick brownish beard that was kept tied in overly elaborate brades, his grumpy pudgy pit bullish face a seemingly constant mask of weariness-as if he was a man that had seen far to much of the dark side of life in Thedas. Of all his features the one that stood out most of all was the large black S shaped tattoo on his right cheek, his crooked nose that had clearly been broken a few times coming in at a close second however. At his full height he stood at a whopping 4'11”, although his stout muscular frame looked much more intimidating while wearing his thick iron plate mail. The weather however had made Flint regret his armor choice, between the cold rain and constant winds he felt as if he were encased in a thick block of ice.
Suddenly the rain stopped for what seemed like the twelfth time that day, a fact that made Flint look skyward in slight surprise. Quickly shaking his head in a manner that could only be described as 'dog like' drops of water quickly filled the air for a brief moment as his beard comically swung back and forth. Shifting his weight in an attempt to make himself more comfortable on his makeshift seat (which was really just a half rotten log he'd found), he then wasted no time searching through a medium sized rucksack that lay next to his right leg. He made a point of only traveling with the bare essentials, most journeys he carried little more then his mace, shield, and signature rucksack that was normally kept slung on his back.
His small armored hands apparently found what they were searching for rather quickly; a tiny amber brown bottle clutched triumphantly in his right hand in mere moments. It was a fine bottle of Antivan brandy he'd won off some Orlesian merchant in a rather heated game of wicked grace. He'd been saving it for a special occasion or a particularly wicked battle wound, but sitting here in the cold woods with boredom almost overwhelming him he had decided it was as good a time as any. Using his teeth like a bottle opener he bit onto the thick cork and twisted causing a loud 'pop' to sound in the quite night. Lifting the bottle to his mouth he took two long swigs, the warm liquid slightly stinging the back of his throat as he took it down. Within moments he felt the effect, his tense body slightly loosening up as the fancy liquor worked its magic. He even felt a little warmer.
In all honesty the booze was one of his favorite things about coming to the surface, unlike back home in Orzammar where everyone was literally used to drinking fermented dirt and mushrooms. Hell, just thinking of the dwarven brews back home made him shiver-the old familiar disgusting flavor filling his mouth with a strange phantom taste he could never forget.
Briefly lost in thought about his previous life back home Flint's mind began to wander only to be torn back to reality when he heard movement in the treeline behind him. Quickly grabbing the old worn out handle that was attached to his thick mace he yanked the tarnished piece of steel out of the ground where it had been resting, his beat up round wooden shield also appearing seemingly out of nowhere in his other hand. It was clear by the numerous knicks, scrapes, and dents on his armor and weapons that he was far more familiar with combat than your average man.
Striking a defensive pose his beady dark brown eyes frantically skimmed the treeline in hopes of finding the source of the noise, he hoped it was simply one of his allies he was here to meet...but knowing his luck it was probably a roving band of wild bandits or lyrium crazed nugs. After all, life was never easy for Flint.
He'd set up camp in the small clearing in the middle of nowhere deep off of the shores of the coastland about four days out of Amaranthine. Honestly he hated the place, the rolling black clouds in the sky seemingly never broke casting a strange eerie depressing mood throughout the vast wilderness he sat in. And the damned rain came and went at a moments notice, a fact that was almost completely unbearable due to the already chilly climate.
Despite how much the cave was begging for him to enter Flint sat there shivering with stereotypical Dwarven stubbornness. His orders from Spy Master Lelliana had been clear and he would not deviate from them, whether that was due to respect or a very healthy fear of the Spy Master was hard to tell. Nonetheless he had been dispatched to meet up with a small group of fellow members of the Inquisition, something he'd been doing more and more in the recent months and he wholeheartedly planned on following her orders to a T.
With the mage rebellion in full swing there had been more and more reports coming in of what had only been described to Flint as 'Dangerous Maleficur Activity'. Yet despite his gruff looking exterior Flint was no idiot, he was well aware that when it came mages they were simply people, and just like people there were good ones, bad ones, and then the kind that just needed to be wiped off the face of Thedas. The later of the three is what Flint had been tasked with combating on almost a daily basis, a feat he had become better and better at over the last few months-And with the Templars doing their seemingly best to kill everyone and everything except those who actually warranted their attention Flints talents had become more and more in demand as of late.
Like most Dwarfs Flint's battle scarred features were hidden behind a thick brownish beard that was kept tied in overly elaborate brades, his grumpy pudgy pit bullish face a seemingly constant mask of weariness-as if he was a man that had seen far to much of the dark side of life in Thedas. Of all his features the one that stood out most of all was the large black S shaped tattoo on his right cheek, his crooked nose that had clearly been broken a few times coming in at a close second however. At his full height he stood at a whopping 4'11”, although his stout muscular frame looked much more intimidating while wearing his thick iron plate mail. The weather however had made Flint regret his armor choice, between the cold rain and constant winds he felt as if he were encased in a thick block of ice.
Suddenly the rain stopped for what seemed like the twelfth time that day, a fact that made Flint look skyward in slight surprise. Quickly shaking his head in a manner that could only be described as 'dog like' drops of water quickly filled the air for a brief moment as his beard comically swung back and forth. Shifting his weight in an attempt to make himself more comfortable on his makeshift seat (which was really just a half rotten log he'd found), he then wasted no time searching through a medium sized rucksack that lay next to his right leg. He made a point of only traveling with the bare essentials, most journeys he carried little more then his mace, shield, and signature rucksack that was normally kept slung on his back.
His small armored hands apparently found what they were searching for rather quickly; a tiny amber brown bottle clutched triumphantly in his right hand in mere moments. It was a fine bottle of Antivan brandy he'd won off some Orlesian merchant in a rather heated game of wicked grace. He'd been saving it for a special occasion or a particularly wicked battle wound, but sitting here in the cold woods with boredom almost overwhelming him he had decided it was as good a time as any. Using his teeth like a bottle opener he bit onto the thick cork and twisted causing a loud 'pop' to sound in the quite night. Lifting the bottle to his mouth he took two long swigs, the warm liquid slightly stinging the back of his throat as he took it down. Within moments he felt the effect, his tense body slightly loosening up as the fancy liquor worked its magic. He even felt a little warmer.
In all honesty the booze was one of his favorite things about coming to the surface, unlike back home in Orzammar where everyone was literally used to drinking fermented dirt and mushrooms. Hell, just thinking of the dwarven brews back home made him shiver-the old familiar disgusting flavor filling his mouth with a strange phantom taste he could never forget.
Briefly lost in thought about his previous life back home Flint's mind began to wander only to be torn back to reality when he heard movement in the treeline behind him. Quickly grabbing the old worn out handle that was attached to his thick mace he yanked the tarnished piece of steel out of the ground where it had been resting, his beat up round wooden shield also appearing seemingly out of nowhere in his other hand. It was clear by the numerous knicks, scrapes, and dents on his armor and weapons that he was far more familiar with combat than your average man.
Striking a defensive pose his beady dark brown eyes frantically skimmed the treeline in hopes of finding the source of the noise, he hoped it was simply one of his allies he was here to meet...but knowing his luck it was probably a roving band of wild bandits or lyrium crazed nugs. After all, life was never easy for Flint.
