[CHAR] Dragon Age: The Uncharted Depths

[Charnobylisk]

Withdrawn from RP

[Apollosarcher]

High Constable Lavellan

Name: Daeron Lavellan

Age: 25

Race: Dalish Elf

Mage: No

Place of Origin: Free Marches

Appearance:


Personality: A youthful optimist with a belief in what the Grey Wardens are doing is right. With a passion for animals and the outdoors in general. Generally he tries to live by Dalish principles however living in the Shem's world has curved some of that. His loyalty and dedication have risen him through the ranks as well as how seriously he takes battles. A solemn believer that the Wardens stand as against the greatest evil of all, the Darkspawn.

Surprising fondness for Dwarves preferring the company of them over humans or city Elves. While he will work with humans, he is not above dealing with those who would insult his kin. A strong believer in Elves right to have a land of their own and be fairly represented among the people of Thedas.

Backstory: Born in the Free Marches, his mother the keeper of clan Lavallen his father was a hunter. At a young age his father passed away. Though he lacked the gift of magic, he learned much of their lore and heritage as any first or second would. He learned to hunt however his sword play came from watch knights and champions in tournaments battle defeat one another. He combined what he witnessed at tournament and combined that with his natural agility and training with the warriors of his clan. Many thought him crazy to train in to skill sets at once, yet as time went on he proved adept in both area's amazing most of his clan.

Attending the Grand Tourney he placed well and many were shocked to see a Dalish among the last standing many were shocked. He had even won jousts on the back of Halla, many city elves bought him drinks, humans booed him and soon found themselves asking for forgiveness. The Emerald of the Marches was what they announced him as, while he never placed champion he did always come close, many claiming he threw the fights to prevent riots by humans. It was here he caught the notice of the Grey Wardens and they invited the Elf into the order.

He soon found himself a Constable of the Grey assigned to Weisshaupt receiving reports from Warden Commanders from around Thedas and sending back what he could from his home in the fortress. He also found himself working with the recently returned Griffins and becoming one of their dedicated trainers. Bonding with one of the hatch-ling he named Storm Beak for her fondness so dragging him from his bed when it stormed to carry her outside and let her fly in the rain.

Recently he was made named High Constable, just before the incident in Ferelden. Deciding to venture down while the First Warden rallies support Storm Beak and Daeron have arrived after a short stay in Orlais. Daeron hopes they can find a solution to the problem before they have build another fortress and man it. These days the Wardens numbers are thin enough as it is.

Notable items: Grey Warden Sky Commander armor, Wardens sword and shield, Dalish bow, and equipment for a Joining.

Mount: Storm Beak, a lovable if annoying griffin with a deep love of flying in the rain much to her partners dismay and dislike.

[POOHEAD189]

Rannon Bryce

Name:Rannon Bryce

Age: 32

Race: Human

Mage?: No

Place of Origin: Fereldan, Ironbrook

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.

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 8 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 sees has little better than Darkspawn unless shown otherwise, from the tales he's heard in Starkhaven, and his blade never tires of spilling Darkspawn blood. 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.

Backstory: 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.
Fereldan was his home, and he went back and continued to serve as a soldier and patrolman for Bryland with his faithful hound. The past year was the first time he had left the service, having decided to join the Grey Wardens as a mercenary. Secretly he would be honored to be invited into that famed group of Darkspawn slayers, but for now merely fighting for them was all he could hope and ask for. He found out why he was hired soon after, for the Darkspawn had returned...


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.

[FantasyChic]

Nicolette Renvier

Name: Nicolette Renvier

Age: 25

Race: Human

Mage?: Nope

Place of Origin: Orlais, originally of the Noble house of Renvier in the capital city, but now wanders around.

Appearance:

Nicolette

Personality: Nicolette, though an assassin by trade, is not brutal and bloodthirsty. Having been raised in a Noble home, she has been bred and brought up well. She is a close friend to those she cares for and always stands up for those who don't have much, having been part of the upper class and losing it all.

To those that abuse their power, those who target the less fortunate, or to those who are just plain nasty, she holds nothing back, not afraid to get into a fight or steal something for revenge. She is whoever she needs to be to blend in to her surroundings, which takes its toll on her as she goes on as she battles with her true identity, which she believes was taken away when she lost her family.

Backstory: Nicolette Renvier is the youngest daughter of House Renvier, behind her sister Magnolia. Her father and mother had great hopes for her. While her sister would marry well and continue their legacy, Nicolette was free to choose her own path and had plans to study abroad and eventually be a member of the Court, an ambassador or something high up.

Nicolette and her sister were best friends and did everything together. They would giggle and play while in their classes, they would hide away in the secret rooms of their house and talk, they would have each others backs if they ever got in trouble. Nicolette always knew her sister would be married off and worried for her sister's future. However, the Duvonte family was the chosen household and the young man, Phineas, was handsome, smart, and adored Magnolia to no end. The two quickly fell in love and it seemed like life would be ok for Magnolia.

Lady Celeste Duvone; however, had other plans. Celeste abhorred the marriage. Knowing full well that if the two married, her plans for her son would be tarnished, hatched her own plans. Money talks and she hired the right people at the right time. While the two lovebirds were together, a team of assassins killed Magnolia and planted forged evidence that showed that Magnolia had planned on assassinating Phineas and his family in hopes to obtain the household finances. Lady Celeste played the doting mother, and called for action against House Renvier. Their title was stripped with little investigation and the family was sent off.

Nicolette, having lost her sister, fell into a whirlwind of depression. They had a simple home life, but her father was called to war and was placed on the front lines and was subsequently killed in action. Her mother slowly grew less and less sane and was eventually placed in a home and cared for.

Nicolette weighed her options. She had no home, no family, and no other options. The call for revenge was too great so she hatched a plan to get back at the Duvonte family. However, even the best laid plans can come to ruin, and Lady Celeste heard through the grapevine of her plans and threatened Nicolette that if she were to ever try anything, she'd unleash a fury on her and make sure she would never get the chance to fight back.

Nicolette instead moved to Ferelden and began wandering, never staying in one place for too long. She started taking on jobs, working with mercenaries, thieves, and other assassins, making a small name for herself as an avenging angel, a savior to those who need someone.

This is where her story begins.

Notable items: Nicolette carries her two silver daggers with her at all times. For her armor, she wears light, leather armor for easy movement. She has a black cloak that she wears to hide herself when she is sneaking around, or just doesn't want to be noticed. She carries a handwritten letter from the head of the Duvonte family, Lady Celeste, with a threat/warning, which Nicolette uses as fuel for her lifestyle. She also carries a small, silver pendant with a picture of her sister.

[TimeMasterX]

Delwin

Name: Delwin

Age: 23

Race: Dwarf

Mage?: No

Place of Origin: Dust Town in Orzammar

Appearance:



Personality:

Delwin is undeniably pragmatic; willing to do anything to put herself ahead she is, at first glance, just another typical criminal churned out by Orzammar's caste system. Willing to get her hands dirty and not put off by danger, outrage or threats, she has a heart of iron and a very strong stomach. Blunt to the point of rudeness and apparently unfazed by social niceties, Delwin speaks her mind and doesn't care who hears. Her sense of morality is fickle and she has very few scruples. She appreciates honesty, professionalism and willingness to bend or break the rules.

Her experience of magic and mages is very limited but as far as she is concerned they are merely another resource to take advantage of. Her knowledge of the customs, factions and peoples on the Surface is also limited, not that she would ever admit as much. She has no particular animosity towards other races, partially because her fondness for Dwarves as a race is so lacking, she treats people as individuals or judges them by their association with other factions that she has come across.

Backstory:

Delwin was born in Dust Town Orzammar as an unfortunate product of a dalliance between a noble and a member of the Casteless. Delwin's mother had been rejected by her lover for fear of what the revelation of a child would do to his status; as a result Delwin was brought up to hate the nobility and this hatred ate at her until she grew to loathe Orzammar itself.

As was the case among many of the young of Orzammar's casteless Delwin found herself involved with the Carta. She was a pickpocket, and a good one, operating in the Orzammar Commons. She was only caught once, having flaunted her success unaware of the guard she was standing in front of. For her crime Delwin was given a terrible beating and thrown back into Dust Town as a warning for the other pickpockets operating there. She was eight years old.

After this incident Delwin could no longer work as a pickpocket, the guards knew her face. The Carta had her taught to fight, she was trained in the most unforgiving school of Orzammar: on the job. She accompanied the muscle of the Carta on their rounds collecting debts, intimidating store owners and on those nights the Carta would murder its competition. Delwin was first a lookout then a lackey before her fearsome skill and appearance allowed her to rise through the Carta's unofficial ranks to become one of its go to intimidator-killers.

Delwin's job took her both above and below the surface, she was a wraith-like figure, called upon only when the mark just wasn't getting the message and the Carta wanted them removed. She was responsible for the removal of merchants, nobles and one guard in the Commons who died mysteriously ten years after giving a beating to an eight year old pickpocket.

On the day that the Hero of Fereldan rooted out the Carta in Orzammar Delwin was above ground in Fereldan, upon hearing of the fate of the Carta she vanished, taking a great deal of resources and equipment with her. Now she makes use of her talents as a mercenary and assassin. To those who know of her she is held in very high regard, if she takes on a job it is a guarantee of success.

Notable items:

Dark leather armour, boots and gloves light and sturdy.
A shimmering amulet of beads around her neck, the vendor who surrendered it to her swore it would aid her stealth.
Two vicious long knives, gnarled and dull but impossibly sharp.
A belt of throwing knives.
A pouch of money.

[Leos Klien]

Mireth'Ren

"Mireth'Ren"

"The brighter the light; the darker the shadow- and at the centre of that perilous abyss, lies the heart of man."

_{Male Dalish Elf | 142 - Born 7:89 Storm | Sanguinem Magus}

Basic Information:

Place of Origin:The Dales.

Appearance: Don't let Mireth's appearance deceive you, his face may be spotless, his eyes warm and soft, his hair glistening and well groomed, his voice calm and collected. What he appears to say and and the way he says it, the way he looks; all of it - A lie.
To the well trained eye, and especially to those who know who he truly is, they will note the undertone of contempt in his words, they can see the malicious spark in his eyes and the murderous intent behind his kind smile.
Humans, are ever so easy to deceive with a pretty picture, but beauty is quite possibly the most deadliest thing about him his very body; a lure for the unsuspecting fish.
He is sleek and slender in build, as most elves are - his frame light and fragile, but fast and mobile, he also stands at roughly 5'2, average height for most elves, if not slightly smaller.
One must remember though, all of it is fleeting as the wind when the curtains fall, and reveal his true nature behind the painted glass.
What is perhaps most notable about this elf, is the lack of the 'Vallaslin', or blood writing upon his face, there is a reason for this but it is one that he has never shared with anyone, nor will he.

Background:
It's arguable, but there is a point in life when one can say it truly started, some would say on day conception, others the day you were born, and then - maybe some time down the line, when you hit a pivotal moment and your life truly begins.
For Mireth'Ren, the latter is very much the case.

His early years are what to be expected of an average Dalish elf that was found with magical affinity, it went a couple of ways, one - sent to another clan if an apprentice to the current keeper already existed, two sent away to the circles lest they be hunted down by Templars and finally, the best option out of the three, and ultimately, the one Mireth fell into was that they became the apprentice to the Keeper of the clan.
The way in how this came about wasn't exactly pretty, but it had nothing to do with Mireth - for the time being, his young self was far from the thing he became, when his life truly started.

The Dales is a peaceful and vibrant area of land, and whilst no form of war is being waged upon its ancient soils its a place that one can have a long peaceful life, bandits and marauding bands of nomads weren't overly common, but it was frequent enough to warrant caution when you were alone, a defensible position was always needed lest some opportunistic Shems try their luck against the Dalish camp, not unheard of given the way elves were treated in Orlais, or rather how Elves were treated in general.

During his time as apprentice to the keeper Mireth spent a great deal of time exploring the ancient elven ruins, as well the burial sites that littered the plains, it was once apart of the Elven homeland, it made sense that it would be brimming with lore and secrets that only real Dalish elves knew how to discover.
He specifically became infatuated with their pantheon, and out of all of them, the dread wolf - Fen'Harel, how one being, God or not - trick all the others into being banished for eternity, was beyond him - he needed to understand, he wanted to know just what could be able to trick the gods themselves into oblivion - or more correctly, somewhere beyond the fade.
His ‘obsession’ as it was labelled by others, was not exactly regarded in the fondest of lights, the elves would never deter their brothers and sisters from exploring the secrets and lore of the Elvhen, but being so fanatically determined to learn more about the Dread wolf was looked at skeptically.

His research and expeditions far afield, even at a young age yielded knowledge to him, most of which he shared to the clan - although some, he did not.
This was the start, from another pair of eyes, at which Mireth began to change, it was slow and gradual, not perceivable at first; in fact it was not perceivable for a very long time only when one looks back can they note the beginning of what became.

Mireth’s passage into adulthood was met with the standard procedure of receiving the Vallasin, and he succeeded in passing the ritual in silence, despite the pain; hardly uncommon but noteworthy amongst his peers - a small redeeming factor given his infatuation with the dread wolf.

Mireth must have been half way through his apprenticeship learning from the keeper, so at the fairly young age of 45 when an event, that is what is regarded when his life truly began occured.
Since they had made their home in the dales for quite a long time - years to be precise, the locals were getting the idea that the ‘knife ears’ had found a piece of land to call their own, not that such a thought or act would ever be permitted, the war with the Qunari was over and the people in local area were looking for some new fight to pick.
These homey elves, were a very nice target, not that success was something they could call the events that transpired the end resulted in the dalish encampment being almost completely destroyed and almost every elf killed, but the numbers lost for the humans was far greater - sieging a well protected encampment, filled with experienced and well trained warriors and a powerful mage was bordering suicide, but through sheer numbers, and a band of chevaliers they prevailed, a victory in the eyes of the Orlesians, but no doubt something that history books would neglect to ever mention.
Not that any historian could have possibly anticipated what one of the survivors would become - a threat to the human world is truly an understatement, during the fight, a haunting image of an elven mage using blood magic was burnt into the surviving shems minds, only to be one day killed by the very elf that they thought to be finally dead.

His quest for vengeance was not pretty, every time he found one of the culprits, via knowledge sold by the carta and disgruntled nobles whom would benefit from the lack of a certain nobles son, then he would murder them bloodily, using blood magic to boil them from the inside out, he would kill their family members in front of their eyes, just like they had done to him - he’d summon demons to play with the wives of the men, before rending their flesh from their bodies.
Mireth spent countless hours, and sleepless nights devising new and ingenious ways to make his enemies suffer.

His mind has never deviated from this since, in his eyes all humans are the same monsters, their hearts blacker than the taint of the darkspawn.

Because a great deal of lives were claimed by him over the space of 10 years in his quest for vengeance Mireth quickly left the Orlaisen lands, spending a great deal of his time exploring the Emerald Graves instead, he spent a great deal of his time here, collecting lore and practicing his magic, of course this meant that some unfortunate souls who stumbled across him were lost forever.

His transition from Orlais to Ferelden wasn’t easy, two completely separate cultures and different people altogether, Mireth had done this after the war that had Ferelden under the boot of the empire, so traveling to and fro was considerably easier than it had previously been.
To be perfectly honest, so long as he didn’t mention that he was from Orlais, which he never truly regarded himself to be from as it was, then he didn’t receive that much scorn, or at leats not as much as he was suspecting.

Personality
Mireth’Ren has two personalities, some would say, but in reality it’s only one, that simply takes a drastic turn when the curtain falls.
When “on stage” Mireth is kind, courteous, upstanding, honourable and almost cheerful, if not slightly stoic.
When “off stage” or when someone interrupts his performance, then his true nature shows, sadistic, violent, dishonourable and strives to achieve his kill - killing for this elf, is an art and he strives to perfect that art.
They’re exceptions to this mostly general rule, however, Mireth is generally openly hostile and rude to humans, or shems as he will always call them, sometimes he begrudgingly accepts that some of them are worthy of respect, but one must go to terrible lengths to earn that compliment - otherwise he will chide them, tell them to leave him be, or to go fornicate with an iron rod, wardens do earn some leniency from him, assuming they don’t refer to elves in derogatory terms and look down upon them.
Elves, assuming they are Dalish earn his immediate respect, and will talk to them kindly and offer his help as oft as he can, city elves, however don’t get this, they must earn it - he cannot blame them for their parents decisions; a slight note of hypocrisy here, however he will not outright bestow upon them his respect.
It’s fair to say that he has few friends, but that has never bothered him - do note however, if you can look past all of his flaws that eventually he will come to like you if you persevere long enough through the torrents of wrongs and hate you may be receive - he is steadfast and loyal to the end to those he cares about.
He will sacrifice almost everything to save you, but the price for this; is steep.

Capabilities:

Skills: Knows how to perform the ritual and act of “Vallasin”, has impeccable fletching skills, he can work a piece of wood into many constructs, but of course, arrows, staves, shields are the most prominent out of these.
Has extensive knowledge in general survivability skills, he knows how to hunt, prepare meat, forage, make fires (without magic - that be cheating), fish, trap, track and a liturgy of other things that have been taught to him by his clans hunters.
Also has a fairly extensive knowledge in Herablism.

Spells: Mireth has a proficiency in lightning based magic, as well as hexs and blood magic.
His main aim is to debilitate the enemy, to wound and hound them, weakening them so he can deal with them in a more personal manner once they are unable to fight.
However, when faced with large groups of enemies he switches to magic that can kill quickly and deal damage in large areas, with is mainly Hemorrhage or some fire based magic.

Inventory:

Cash:12 sovereigns and a small pouch of change.

Clothing and Armor: Mireth wears an ancient keepers robe, it is notable aged yet despite this the stitching and intricate patterns that adorn it remain almost perfect as the day they were first crafted, he doesn’t wear shoes and travels the land barefoot, although he is no fool, he keeps a permanent mini barrier around the soles of his feet protecting them from the elements.
The robe is magically imbueded and grants the wearer significant nature resistance and willpower.

Weapon

A handcrafted stave, made from ironbark, it is unique in that it has an unusual staff blade at the bottom, the wood and the blade are fused together as if it were originally part of the wood that was used in the crafting, this is to increase the ease of blood magic, and close range offensive combat, the staff end is a large blue crystal, jagged and altogether ominous in its appearance
Fear this staff, it has claimed the lives of many an unsuspecting foe.


Potions and Arcane Supplies: Various healing and lyrium potions, also carries a few grenades procured from a wandering alchemist, they unleash waths of furling fire upon those caught in its blast radius, used in emergencies only.

Jewelry and Novelty Items: A small band from his keeper’s body, purely sentimental, otherwise nothing of note.

Books and Documents: Various documents on elvhen lore, as well as numerous sketchings of Fen’harel and elven runes.
And a journal, that contains a large list of names that have crossed out in what appears to be red ink.


Food, Drinks, Provisions: A few portions of dried and salted meat - Mireth doesn’t eat much and can go exceptional lengths of time with out food.
A carton for water.

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

Other:Quill - Carving knife, fletching knife, a silver ceremonial knife - all three are in their own scabbards tied around his thigh.