Arcane Uprising: Setting Sun 2.0 (Dragon Age Mage RP) [Open, Started. PM GM for info on joining.]
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Name: Bellevit Balt
Age: 38
Gender: Male
Race: Human
Class: Warrior
Specializations: Reaver
Abilities: Is a man of absolute zero taste in cuisine. He has devoured every type of non-tainted meat under the sun--and he'll remind you he means EVERY type--be it raw or cooked. Be it by luck, will, or some sick joke of the Maker, he has survived the countless diseases that should have ravaged his body and come out stronger for them. He is nigh-immune to every flesh-borne virus and bacterium short of the Taint itself. And he insists that's only because he hasn't tried Darkspawn flesh yet.
He is a scarily accomplished swordsman, and can recall the names of every sentient thing he's killed. The list is longer than most can stand to listen to. While he's no slouch in a duel, as many unfortunate souls have learned, he's best put to use as a form of pesticide: set him loose in a crowd and watch the blood flow.
Is gifted with a sharp, silver tongue and a quick wit. He almost exclusively uses these talents to piss off everyone in the room, just to see how far they can be pushed.
Weapons: He wields two weapons, a longsword and a dagger, in tandem.
The sword is made of white steel, with a gleaming blade as sharp as the day it was forged. Runes made of what appear to be lyrium run down its groove. He can't actually recall where he got it, but he hopes it was some kid's family heirloom, wielded in a desperate attempt to avenge their parents. He thinks the weapon might be cursed, or destined, or something like that to be the blade that kills him. He's not really sure, though, he might be remembering it wrong.
The dagger is made of red steel, and has been with Bellevit since as far back as he can remember. It's his preferred weapon by far, and he fondly refers to it as "Hannegore". It has tasted blood as often as he has.
Appearance: Bellevit is a giant of a man, standing 6 and a half feet tall, with broad shoulders and a well-toned frame. His body has powerful muscles, but they are not extremely pronounced. Between this, his height, and his limbs that seem somewhat too long for him, his silhouette bears more in common with a scarecrow than a person. His skin is inordinately pale, and rather sickly looking.
His face is gaunt and clean-shaven, but still comes across as handsome in its strange way. His features are slight, with a small chin and a thin skull, and a nose that comes down to something more like a point than a rounded edge. His eyes are sunken in, but still present themselves with a strong, shimmering glow. They are as blue as the deepest ocean, and seem to hold a hunger within them. His expression by default seems to fall into a sort of malicious glee, held back only by a modicum of stoicism. This winds up with him looking slightly amused at just about anything going on around him. His hair is black, long and well-maintained, flowing neatly down behind his head to his shoulders. Only a few locks fall in front of his face. His lips are thin and colorless, and contribute to his ghostly persuasion.
The centerpiece to his outfit is a red steel breastplate, with a decorative black stripe running down its center. It is not a straight line, but rather curls off into little curves and floral prints. It looks more like armor to be worn by a noble than a man of his repute. And if asked about it, he'd agree with you, and suggest you fast for a day before he tells you the story. He doesn't want to be the one to clean up your reaction. Over this breastplate is a long, red, heavy jacket with trailing coattails and a high collar that obscures his face. At first glance it would appear to be some custom-ordered creation. But one familiar with tailoring would see on closer inspection that it's actually a Chantry robe, bastardized and modified into the creation that it is now, underlain with leather to provide it with some protective boons. He won't tell where he found the red dye, but suggests you don't go looking for any cattle in the woods. His trousers are black, and fitted with a few pieces of red steel armor at key points, providing him both mobility and protection.
Personality: Irreverent is a good word to describe Bellevit. He simply does. Not. Care, whether the subject is you, your family, politics, or anything beyond how he's going to amuse himself for the next few minutes. He has a very strong sense of humor, though most would find it terrible. He's keen on the most audacious sort of jokes he can conjure up, going for shock value, depravity, combined with just enough cleverness to make it respectable.
He has a lust, in every sense of the word lust, for bloodshed. He takes to battle like a fish to water, generally hopping into every scuffle he can find unless kept on a very short leash. He has a nearly nihilistic view of the value of human life. In a world where your manner of death is generally restricted to Darkspawn, the Darkspawn taint, bandits, wildlife, or your own damned neighbor, it's just a matter of who calls dibs on the carnage. He's shooting for the high score.
He has an, on the whole, negative view of the Chantry and their poncy need for some magical alcoholic father in the sky to suck up to. He genuinely respects power, at least until he proves he can overcome it. So the persecution of mages is something of a sore spot between he and them. He tries his best to negotiate the matter sensibly. Unfortunately, his idea of sensibly is "Hannegore to the throat." Since he knows he'll likely never bring the Chantry down on his own, he's found his own means of warfare, namely finding the Chantry building in every town he comes to and either insulting their heads until he is kicked out (or, much better in his opinion, attacked by the local Templars.), defacing the place in some significant way, or just up and burning a goat to death on their doorstep. He's especially fond of the latter.
His relationships with others are genuinely restricted to enemy and acquaintance. He respects a person enough to call them a friend so rarely, he usually gives them a pet name to signify their nigh-mythical status, such as "rich elf", "sky dwarf", or "honest Templar". That said, while he doesn't make it obvious, he's loyal to these friends and will defend them viciously. Usually a little more viciously than necessary.
Bio: Only the Maker has a clue where in Thedas this man came from. He's got records of his birth from Ferelden, to Tevinter, to Orlais, the Free Marches--there are even several Qunari who insist he lived among them as a child, learning their ways. He'll occasionally quote the Qun, just to exacerbate that theory, he finds it so funny. Wherever he came from, he didn't stay there long. He's been traveling most of his life, going from place to place as a drifter, usually taking a job as a mercenary to make some coin. Or, when that isn't exciting or he can't find a job, he straight-up murders a bloke and takes their things.
He's been called many things, from a demon to a savior. He's burned villages to the ground, and he's driven off bandit or Darkspawn raids single-handedly, with seemingly no rhyme or reason. However, that's neither here nor there. He first came to Ferelden during the last Blight, stumbling haphazardly into more than a few skirmishes between the locals and the invading Darkspawn. He hopped in and slaughtered the devilish creatures every time, leaving without even stopping to be thanked--though he usually stopped by their camp to take a few things. He built up a bit of a name for himself as the Crimson Wanderer, randomly showing up in the middle of a battle, slaughtering the Darkspawn, and moving on quietly.
The pinnacle of his legend came at the battle of Denerim, where he slipped in among King Alistair's soldiers unheard, only being noticed when he leaped atop the back of an Ogre, driving his blade between its shoulder blades and taking it down.
He was actually found several months later, in Orzammar. Fen Arsan came across Bellevit in a bar, drinking the dwarven swill like it was ambrosia. Curious if this was the man she'd heard tell of, she asked who he was. He answered that she was probably looking for the Crimson Wanderer. That was one of the nice names they gave him. He explained, when asked, that he'd been living here for months. He could hardly believe his luck: a place with hundreds upon hundreds of bloodthirsty psychopaths, and as long as they have those weird tattoos, nobody even yells at you for killing them! It was like paradise, but bloodier. And with shittier beer.
When it became clear she was recruiting for the Wardens, he quickly jumped at the chance to join. He liked all the Carta thugs fresh for murder around the city, but the booze was a deal-breaker. Of course, all she had to go on was hearsay, so Fen asked for some proof of his skill. The Gray Wardens only took the best.
Bellevit took offense to that. He disappeared for a week, striding off into the Deep Roads with nothing but the blades he held and the clothes he wore. When he came back, twenty Darkspawn heads were wrapped in a sack of cloth and were being carried over his shoulder. Another dozen's worth of ears were in his pack. Confident that he'd proved his worth, he asked if he could "be in your club now".
Age: 38
Gender: Male
Race: Human
Class: Warrior
Specializations: Reaver
Abilities: Is a man of absolute zero taste in cuisine. He has devoured every type of non-tainted meat under the sun--and he'll remind you he means EVERY type--be it raw or cooked. Be it by luck, will, or some sick joke of the Maker, he has survived the countless diseases that should have ravaged his body and come out stronger for them. He is nigh-immune to every flesh-borne virus and bacterium short of the Taint itself. And he insists that's only because he hasn't tried Darkspawn flesh yet.
He is a scarily accomplished swordsman, and can recall the names of every sentient thing he's killed. The list is longer than most can stand to listen to. While he's no slouch in a duel, as many unfortunate souls have learned, he's best put to use as a form of pesticide: set him loose in a crowd and watch the blood flow.
Is gifted with a sharp, silver tongue and a quick wit. He almost exclusively uses these talents to piss off everyone in the room, just to see how far they can be pushed.
Weapons: He wields two weapons, a longsword and a dagger, in tandem.
The sword is made of white steel, with a gleaming blade as sharp as the day it was forged. Runes made of what appear to be lyrium run down its groove. He can't actually recall where he got it, but he hopes it was some kid's family heirloom, wielded in a desperate attempt to avenge their parents. He thinks the weapon might be cursed, or destined, or something like that to be the blade that kills him. He's not really sure, though, he might be remembering it wrong.
The dagger is made of red steel, and has been with Bellevit since as far back as he can remember. It's his preferred weapon by far, and he fondly refers to it as "Hannegore". It has tasted blood as often as he has.
Appearance: Bellevit is a giant of a man, standing 6 and a half feet tall, with broad shoulders and a well-toned frame. His body has powerful muscles, but they are not extremely pronounced. Between this, his height, and his limbs that seem somewhat too long for him, his silhouette bears more in common with a scarecrow than a person. His skin is inordinately pale, and rather sickly looking.
His face is gaunt and clean-shaven, but still comes across as handsome in its strange way. His features are slight, with a small chin and a thin skull, and a nose that comes down to something more like a point than a rounded edge. His eyes are sunken in, but still present themselves with a strong, shimmering glow. They are as blue as the deepest ocean, and seem to hold a hunger within them. His expression by default seems to fall into a sort of malicious glee, held back only by a modicum of stoicism. This winds up with him looking slightly amused at just about anything going on around him. His hair is black, long and well-maintained, flowing neatly down behind his head to his shoulders. Only a few locks fall in front of his face. His lips are thin and colorless, and contribute to his ghostly persuasion.
The centerpiece to his outfit is a red steel breastplate, with a decorative black stripe running down its center. It is not a straight line, but rather curls off into little curves and floral prints. It looks more like armor to be worn by a noble than a man of his repute. And if asked about it, he'd agree with you, and suggest you fast for a day before he tells you the story. He doesn't want to be the one to clean up your reaction. Over this breastplate is a long, red, heavy jacket with trailing coattails and a high collar that obscures his face. At first glance it would appear to be some custom-ordered creation. But one familiar with tailoring would see on closer inspection that it's actually a Chantry robe, bastardized and modified into the creation that it is now, underlain with leather to provide it with some protective boons. He won't tell where he found the red dye, but suggests you don't go looking for any cattle in the woods. His trousers are black, and fitted with a few pieces of red steel armor at key points, providing him both mobility and protection.
Personality: Irreverent is a good word to describe Bellevit. He simply does. Not. Care, whether the subject is you, your family, politics, or anything beyond how he's going to amuse himself for the next few minutes. He has a very strong sense of humor, though most would find it terrible. He's keen on the most audacious sort of jokes he can conjure up, going for shock value, depravity, combined with just enough cleverness to make it respectable.
He has a lust, in every sense of the word lust, for bloodshed. He takes to battle like a fish to water, generally hopping into every scuffle he can find unless kept on a very short leash. He has a nearly nihilistic view of the value of human life. In a world where your manner of death is generally restricted to Darkspawn, the Darkspawn taint, bandits, wildlife, or your own damned neighbor, it's just a matter of who calls dibs on the carnage. He's shooting for the high score.
He has an, on the whole, negative view of the Chantry and their poncy need for some magical alcoholic father in the sky to suck up to. He genuinely respects power, at least until he proves he can overcome it. So the persecution of mages is something of a sore spot between he and them. He tries his best to negotiate the matter sensibly. Unfortunately, his idea of sensibly is "Hannegore to the throat." Since he knows he'll likely never bring the Chantry down on his own, he's found his own means of warfare, namely finding the Chantry building in every town he comes to and either insulting their heads until he is kicked out (or, much better in his opinion, attacked by the local Templars.), defacing the place in some significant way, or just up and burning a goat to death on their doorstep. He's especially fond of the latter.
His relationships with others are genuinely restricted to enemy and acquaintance. He respects a person enough to call them a friend so rarely, he usually gives them a pet name to signify their nigh-mythical status, such as "rich elf", "sky dwarf", or "honest Templar". That said, while he doesn't make it obvious, he's loyal to these friends and will defend them viciously. Usually a little more viciously than necessary.
Bio: Only the Maker has a clue where in Thedas this man came from. He's got records of his birth from Ferelden, to Tevinter, to Orlais, the Free Marches--there are even several Qunari who insist he lived among them as a child, learning their ways. He'll occasionally quote the Qun, just to exacerbate that theory, he finds it so funny. Wherever he came from, he didn't stay there long. He's been traveling most of his life, going from place to place as a drifter, usually taking a job as a mercenary to make some coin. Or, when that isn't exciting or he can't find a job, he straight-up murders a bloke and takes their things.
He's been called many things, from a demon to a savior. He's burned villages to the ground, and he's driven off bandit or Darkspawn raids single-handedly, with seemingly no rhyme or reason. However, that's neither here nor there. He first came to Ferelden during the last Blight, stumbling haphazardly into more than a few skirmishes between the locals and the invading Darkspawn. He hopped in and slaughtered the devilish creatures every time, leaving without even stopping to be thanked--though he usually stopped by their camp to take a few things. He built up a bit of a name for himself as the Crimson Wanderer, randomly showing up in the middle of a battle, slaughtering the Darkspawn, and moving on quietly.
The pinnacle of his legend came at the battle of Denerim, where he slipped in among King Alistair's soldiers unheard, only being noticed when he leaped atop the back of an Ogre, driving his blade between its shoulder blades and taking it down.
He was actually found several months later, in Orzammar. Fen Arsan came across Bellevit in a bar, drinking the dwarven swill like it was ambrosia. Curious if this was the man she'd heard tell of, she asked who he was. He answered that she was probably looking for the Crimson Wanderer. That was one of the nice names they gave him. He explained, when asked, that he'd been living here for months. He could hardly believe his luck: a place with hundreds upon hundreds of bloodthirsty psychopaths, and as long as they have those weird tattoos, nobody even yells at you for killing them! It was like paradise, but bloodier. And with shittier beer.
When it became clear she was recruiting for the Wardens, he quickly jumped at the chance to join. He liked all the Carta thugs fresh for murder around the city, but the booze was a deal-breaker. Of course, all she had to go on was hearsay, so Fen asked for some proof of his skill. The Gray Wardens only took the best.
Bellevit took offense to that. He disappeared for a week, striding off into the Deep Roads with nothing but the blades he held and the clothes he wore. When he came back, twenty Darkspawn heads were wrapped in a sack of cloth and were being carried over his shoulder. Another dozen's worth of ears were in his pack. Confident that he'd proved his worth, he asked if he could "be in your club now".
I give my entry for consideration.
Name: Berven Halten
Age: 25
Gender: Male
Race: Elf
Class: Mage
Specialization: N/A
Abilities: Berven is proficient in primal fire knowing Flame Blast, Fire Weapons and Fireball. He also has some knowledge of Glyphs, mainly glyphs of Paralysis and Glyph of Warding. In addition he knows Arcane Bolt and Arcane Shield. He knows basic cooking but it is rarely used. He is an extremely dedicated reader, often reading through a book in a night, depending on how long it is.
Weapons: An oak staff that he received in the Circle.
Appearance: Berven has long white hair that he keeps dreadlocked to keep it out of his face. Like all elves he has pointed ears and a pointed chin, along with slanted green eyes. His body is free of tattoos but his face is partly burnt around his left eye. He is about average height standing at 5?11. He wears basic blue robes that are lose and flowing, hiding his body. Berven is skinny despite a relatively inactive lifestyle. His elven heritage helps keep his body lean and a little bit in shape. He won?t be running any marathons anytime soon but he can keep pace. Around his neck there is a simple silver chain that he was given by someone shortly before he was taken away to the Circle.
Personality: Berven is an elf of few words. He stands to the sidelines and tries to blend in most of the time. He is uncomfortable being the center of any attention and will often deflect any attention he gets onto someone else. He answers question as quickly as possible and when eating with a community will sit off to the side by himself.
Despite his anti-socialism, Berven is interested in what is going on in the world outside the Circle. He doesn?t wish to participate in greater events but he does wish to observe them and record them. Berven also enjoys researching and often when he doesn?t have his nose in a book he will be recording his findings and the events of the Outside to help preserve history.
Berven is also prone to fidgeting and playing with his sleeves when he is not doing anything. He also likes to bite his lip when reading and he has a tendency of sticking his tongue out when concentrating.
When it comes to fighting Berven would rather things be solved with the least amount of violence but he isn?t so naïve as to believe that everything can be solved that way and is willing to take a stand if he needs to.
Berven is also stubborn. If confronted with a problem he will work and work and work
until he final solves it and once he is set on a specific course he will not abandoned it until he finishes it.
Bio: Berven was born in Nevarra City in the alienage there with only his Mother, his Father wanting nothing to do with him. When he was five his mother gave him a box with a silver necklace in it, an heirloom of their family. When he was six he displayed magic in front of a group of Templars. Berven?s Mother tried to protect him but eventually the Templars got tired of trying to convince her to move, grabbed her and took her out back. Hours later Berven?s mother staggered back to the house, bloody and bruised. She quickly threw a couple of things into a bag for Berven and threw him out the door to the Templars. He never saw her again.
Once at the Circle in Nevarra City, Berven threw himself into the written part of his learning to forget about his Mother. He exceled in the Library and spent more time there than anywhere else, even sleeping there more often than his room. When he was 17 he underwent his Harrowing. His thirst for knowledge led him to face a Hunger Demon with promises for greater and greater knowledge. Berven almost succumbed but at the least minute he let lose a fireball and drove the Demon away.
Now granted even greater access to the Library, Berven once again threw himself into the books, reading through the histories of Thedas. In 9:27 Dragon a rebellion occurred in in the Nevarra Circle. A sect of Blood Mages appeared and attempted to take over the tower. However one had succeeded in killing the First Enchanter. The surviving mages banded together and along with a group of Templars attacked the Blood Mage who had killed and the First Enchanter and the demons she had summoned. Berven fought as well and it was during this battle that an attack from a Rage demon that his face was burnt. In the final push the mages and the Templars broke through the Blood Mage?s defenses and Berven stroke her down with a lucky Arcane Bolt.
Berven was hailed as a hero for delivering the killing blow and some of the mages started to look up to him as the Savior of the Nevarra Circle. Uncomfortable with all this attention he tried to find quiet spots in the Tower but was constantly followed by admirers, despite his numerous protests that he just got lucky and there was no way he could have won by himself.
Finally feed up with all this attention he requested a transfer to the Circle of magi in Montsimmard in Orlais. After the incident at the Tower in Ferelden at Lake Calenhad Berven went there to help clean up the mess and restore the Library.
Age: 25
Gender: Male
Race: Elf
Class: Mage
Specialization: N/A
Abilities: Berven is proficient in primal fire knowing Flame Blast, Fire Weapons and Fireball. He also has some knowledge of Glyphs, mainly glyphs of Paralysis and Glyph of Warding. In addition he knows Arcane Bolt and Arcane Shield. He knows basic cooking but it is rarely used. He is an extremely dedicated reader, often reading through a book in a night, depending on how long it is.
Weapons: An oak staff that he received in the Circle.
Appearance: Berven has long white hair that he keeps dreadlocked to keep it out of his face. Like all elves he has pointed ears and a pointed chin, along with slanted green eyes. His body is free of tattoos but his face is partly burnt around his left eye. He is about average height standing at 5?11. He wears basic blue robes that are lose and flowing, hiding his body. Berven is skinny despite a relatively inactive lifestyle. His elven heritage helps keep his body lean and a little bit in shape. He won?t be running any marathons anytime soon but he can keep pace. Around his neck there is a simple silver chain that he was given by someone shortly before he was taken away to the Circle.
Personality: Berven is an elf of few words. He stands to the sidelines and tries to blend in most of the time. He is uncomfortable being the center of any attention and will often deflect any attention he gets onto someone else. He answers question as quickly as possible and when eating with a community will sit off to the side by himself.
Despite his anti-socialism, Berven is interested in what is going on in the world outside the Circle. He doesn?t wish to participate in greater events but he does wish to observe them and record them. Berven also enjoys researching and often when he doesn?t have his nose in a book he will be recording his findings and the events of the Outside to help preserve history.
Berven is also prone to fidgeting and playing with his sleeves when he is not doing anything. He also likes to bite his lip when reading and he has a tendency of sticking his tongue out when concentrating.
When it comes to fighting Berven would rather things be solved with the least amount of violence but he isn?t so naïve as to believe that everything can be solved that way and is willing to take a stand if he needs to.
Berven is also stubborn. If confronted with a problem he will work and work and work
until he final solves it and once he is set on a specific course he will not abandoned it until he finishes it.
Bio: Berven was born in Nevarra City in the alienage there with only his Mother, his Father wanting nothing to do with him. When he was five his mother gave him a box with a silver necklace in it, an heirloom of their family. When he was six he displayed magic in front of a group of Templars. Berven?s Mother tried to protect him but eventually the Templars got tired of trying to convince her to move, grabbed her and took her out back. Hours later Berven?s mother staggered back to the house, bloody and bruised. She quickly threw a couple of things into a bag for Berven and threw him out the door to the Templars. He never saw her again.
Once at the Circle in Nevarra City, Berven threw himself into the written part of his learning to forget about his Mother. He exceled in the Library and spent more time there than anywhere else, even sleeping there more often than his room. When he was 17 he underwent his Harrowing. His thirst for knowledge led him to face a Hunger Demon with promises for greater and greater knowledge. Berven almost succumbed but at the least minute he let lose a fireball and drove the Demon away.
Now granted even greater access to the Library, Berven once again threw himself into the books, reading through the histories of Thedas. In 9:27 Dragon a rebellion occurred in in the Nevarra Circle. A sect of Blood Mages appeared and attempted to take over the tower. However one had succeeded in killing the First Enchanter. The surviving mages banded together and along with a group of Templars attacked the Blood Mage who had killed and the First Enchanter and the demons she had summoned. Berven fought as well and it was during this battle that an attack from a Rage demon that his face was burnt. In the final push the mages and the Templars broke through the Blood Mage?s defenses and Berven stroke her down with a lucky Arcane Bolt.
Berven was hailed as a hero for delivering the killing blow and some of the mages started to look up to him as the Savior of the Nevarra Circle. Uncomfortable with all this attention he tried to find quiet spots in the Tower but was constantly followed by admirers, despite his numerous protests that he just got lucky and there was no way he could have won by himself.
Finally feed up with all this attention he requested a transfer to the Circle of magi in Montsimmard in Orlais. After the incident at the Tower in Ferelden at Lake Calenhad Berven went there to help clean up the mess and restore the Library.
Alright, finally got this one finished up!
Name: Sarah Mancini
Age: 23
Gender: Female
Race: Human
Class: Warrior
Specializations: Reaver
Abilities: A skilled archer, Sarah relies on her deft hands and incredible accuracy to dominate the battlefield. With a range of nearly 300 yards, nearly every arrow she lets loose will bury itself into a foe's chest, neck, or head, their barbed shafts dealing massive amounts of damage.
Although she prefers to deal death from afar, Sarah is far from helpless when it comes to close combat. However, it would be incorrect to say she was skilled with a blade, despite a greatsword being one of her main weapons; her attacks are clunky and obvious, guided by bestial instinct as opposed to training, and as a result are quite easy to block. Of course, even if her attacks are blocked, it hardly matters. The absolute force with which she attacks is more than capable of cleaving through shields and armor. If you ever need to find Sarah on the battlefield, look for the mist of blood and severed limbs. She's somewhere in the middle of it.
Outside of combat, Sarah has very few talents that manage to stick out. She is a passable cook, thanks mostly to her knowledge of herbs and spices, and is used to surviving off the fat of the land, but that's about it.
Weapons: The first of Sarah's weapons is her longbow, a massive shaft of yew almost as tall as its owner. Though it is a few years old, with various nicks and dents covering most of its length, careful maintenance has kept the bow in top condition. A quiver, kept well stocked with arrows, is slung over Sarah's shoulder.
Sarah also wields an enormous greatsword, a chunk of steel nearly five feet long and weighing six pounds. Though newer than her bow, the sword is in noticeably worse shape; its blade is marred by countless chips, is stained by rust, and shows signs of going dull. Unless she is in the middle of a melee, the sword is always sheathed across Sarah's back.
Appearance: Standing at 5' 8" and weighing a mere 170 pounds, Sarah often fails to strike an imposing figure. Her dull brown, lifeless hair tends to hang awkwardly in front her eye, forcing the girl to constantly fiddle with her bangs. A single ice-blue orb peeks out from behind the muddy curtain, glimmering with thought and shyness. A long scar, faded from age, runs down the right side of her face, stretching from her forehead to her chin and running through her eye socket. Although she tries to hide them, her teeth are noticeably sharper than the average human's, a side-effect of her joining.
Surprising for one of her profession, Sarah's body is a far cry from the burly, muscled forms of her fellow warriors. Her arms are certainly strong enough to pull a bowstring and swing a sword, but they are more akin to the thin, lithe limbs of an acrobat than those of a fighter. The same is true for the rest of her frame; though you'd be hard pressed to find an ounce of fat anywhere on her, you also wouldn't find anything to indicate anything more than average strength. You would, however, find another obtrusive scar on her right forearm.
When not in her armor, Sarah is normally clad in a simple, light-blue dress, worn over a white blouse and brown leggings. A pair of leather shoes protect her feet from the elements. A plain necklace, comprised of crude, iron links, adorns her neck and a black eye-patch covers the upper-right corner of her face. Finally, her right arm is shrouded in bandages.
When travelling or fighting, however, Sarah wears her trusty armaments with pride. Although her hands and joints are left unguarded, to better wield her bow and facilitate movement, respectively, the rest of Sarah's body is covered by chain mail, providing her with a sturdy and reasonably mobile defense. A half helm protects her head but leaves her sight and hearing unimpeded.
Personality: At heart, Sarah is a friendly, if shy, girl. Cheerful to an almost annoying degree and more than a little gullible, she enjoys exchanging pleasantries with just about anyone, be they soldier or villager, human or elf or dwarf or Qunari. A bit too willing to help people out, she often allows herself to be talked into the short end of a deal.
To Sarah, there is a certain peacefulness to simply engaging in everyday life; this is the main reason she practices her, admittedly not that great, cooking with such enthusiasm. If her lifestyle left her with any free time, she'd likely pick up sewing or some other form of crafting, anything that could allow her to feel a degree of normalcy. However, at the same time, she will resent anyone who questions her combat capabilities; insult her skills as a warrior at your own peril.
Though she respects the Chantry and firmly believes in the Maker, Sarah has never really taken the time to learn Andraste's teachings; she's even tried to forget everything she learned as a child. While part of this is due to her inability to read, the other, more prevalent, reason is that she simply believes she should not. No matter how much she wants to lie to herself, Sarah knows that she's something less than human. She is a monster, a horror motivated solely by bloodlust and frenzy, an abomination in the eyes of the Maker and those who serve Him.
However, even a monster can be blessed with a purpose. Sarah fights to eradicate other monsters from the face of the earth, be they villains seeking to prey on the weak, wildlife that has acquired a taste for human flesh, or the Darkspawn. In Sarah's mind, these disgusting creatures are even less worthy of life than she is, and she will do all in her power to ensure that they do not possess it for too much longer.
Of course, all of this fades away when she enters the battlefield.
Sarah acts in one of two ways when fighting. There is her "archer" personality, cold, cunning, and capable of killing without hesitation. And then there's her... other personality. She doesn't like to talk about it much. Or at all, really.
Bio: The daughter of a simple farmer, Sarah was born and raised in a small village to the west of Lothering. A rural place, the village boasted a tiny populace and plenty of crops and livestock, but little in the way of defenders or protection. Which was probably why it made such a tempting target for that band of marauders...
Sarah was only fourteen when bandits razed her village, destroying any chance she might have had at a normal, let alone happy, childhood. The attack was vicious, lightning fast, and utterly without mercy. Those who tried to fight back were cut down without hesitation, those who tried to flee were skewered by arrows, those who tried to surrender were beaten and raped before being executed. In a single night, everything that the young girl knew was destroyed.
When the thieves finally departed, they left nothing but ruin in their wake. Homes were reduced to ash, crops and herds were stolen or destroyed, and the villagers themselves were slaughtered. There was only one survivor of the massacre: a young girl, bearing horrific wounds and missing an eye, who lay helpless upon the bloodstained ground.
Barely alive and unable to move, Sarah lay there for two days as her life drained away. With pain ravaging her body and her mind all but broken, the girl was truly upon death's door when a chance encounter occurred.
Sarah never saw the face of her savior; his ragged, dust-covered cloak saw to that. She never learned his name, his motives, or what he was doing in a ruined village such as this. But, until her dying day, she will never forget his voice.
With words as rich and soothing as chocolate, the stranger praised Sarah for her sheer will to live; it wasn't just anyone who could survive such devastating wounds. There was a slight lilt to his tone, almost as though he was laughing, when he asked her if she wanted to keep on living, or if she would be content to simply pass on. Afraid, she had not answered. Then, his words as cold as winter's ice, he asked if she wanted revenge upon those who had done this to her.
She managed to nod.
Though Sarah was still unable to see the man's face, she could tell he was smiling as he reached into his satchel. Through ears caked with blood and dirt, she heard the sound of a cork being popped. A vial pressed against her lips, and a thick liquid, smelling like rusty iron, poured into her throat. With the last of her strength, she swallowed.
The next week was little more than a blur. If she concentrates, Sarah can sometimes recall snippets of noise or a solitary image, such as the spine-tingling howl of a wolf or a splatter of crimson against a tree tunk. However, the one thing that she can remember with perfect clarity is the pain, the absolute agony, that pulsed throughout her entire body. It felt as though her blood had been replaced with oil and set ablaze, as though her flesh was being flayed from her bones, as though dozens of needles had been jammed into every one of her joints. It was horrible.
But she survived.
Somehow making her way to Lothering, Sarah was taken in and treated by the local Chantry, before they noticed there was something... off about the girl. Really, it was kind of obvious, what with her extreme hostility, her abnormally sharp teeth, and her bizarre preference for raw meat. Rather unsurprisingly, they planned to exorcise the girl. Undoubtedly they would have ended up killing Sarah, had she not caught wind of their plans and escaped.
Wandering about Ferelden, Sarah found herself drawn to scenes of battle and war. After scrounging about for a while, she managed to find herself a set ill-fitting armor and a bow which, thanks to her training with her father's old hunting bow, she could wield with some amount of skill. Calling herself a mercenary, Sarah traveled across the nation, earning her keep by fighting off bandits, monsters, and, when the Blight came, Darkspawn. She became a thing of terror on the battlefield, either shooting her enemies down from afar or slaughtering them en mass.
It was little wonder, considering how close Sarah kept to the battlefield, that she eventually drew the attention of one Fen Arsan. When offered a chance to join the Grey Wardens, Sarah, while not exactly jumping at the opportunity, did eventually accept. The Wardens were, after all, well known for dealing with threats to the general populace, and who knew? Maybe they would be able to find a way to put her bloodlust to good use.
Age: 23
Gender: Female
Race: Human
Class: Warrior
Specializations: Reaver
Abilities: A skilled archer, Sarah relies on her deft hands and incredible accuracy to dominate the battlefield. With a range of nearly 300 yards, nearly every arrow she lets loose will bury itself into a foe's chest, neck, or head, their barbed shafts dealing massive amounts of damage.
Although she prefers to deal death from afar, Sarah is far from helpless when it comes to close combat. However, it would be incorrect to say she was skilled with a blade, despite a greatsword being one of her main weapons; her attacks are clunky and obvious, guided by bestial instinct as opposed to training, and as a result are quite easy to block. Of course, even if her attacks are blocked, it hardly matters. The absolute force with which she attacks is more than capable of cleaving through shields and armor. If you ever need to find Sarah on the battlefield, look for the mist of blood and severed limbs. She's somewhere in the middle of it.
Outside of combat, Sarah has very few talents that manage to stick out. She is a passable cook, thanks mostly to her knowledge of herbs and spices, and is used to surviving off the fat of the land, but that's about it.
Weapons: The first of Sarah's weapons is her longbow, a massive shaft of yew almost as tall as its owner. Though it is a few years old, with various nicks and dents covering most of its length, careful maintenance has kept the bow in top condition. A quiver, kept well stocked with arrows, is slung over Sarah's shoulder.
Sarah also wields an enormous greatsword, a chunk of steel nearly five feet long and weighing six pounds. Though newer than her bow, the sword is in noticeably worse shape; its blade is marred by countless chips, is stained by rust, and shows signs of going dull. Unless she is in the middle of a melee, the sword is always sheathed across Sarah's back.
Appearance: Standing at 5' 8" and weighing a mere 170 pounds, Sarah often fails to strike an imposing figure. Her dull brown, lifeless hair tends to hang awkwardly in front her eye, forcing the girl to constantly fiddle with her bangs. A single ice-blue orb peeks out from behind the muddy curtain, glimmering with thought and shyness. A long scar, faded from age, runs down the right side of her face, stretching from her forehead to her chin and running through her eye socket. Although she tries to hide them, her teeth are noticeably sharper than the average human's, a side-effect of her joining.
Surprising for one of her profession, Sarah's body is a far cry from the burly, muscled forms of her fellow warriors. Her arms are certainly strong enough to pull a bowstring and swing a sword, but they are more akin to the thin, lithe limbs of an acrobat than those of a fighter. The same is true for the rest of her frame; though you'd be hard pressed to find an ounce of fat anywhere on her, you also wouldn't find anything to indicate anything more than average strength. You would, however, find another obtrusive scar on her right forearm.
When not in her armor, Sarah is normally clad in a simple, light-blue dress, worn over a white blouse and brown leggings. A pair of leather shoes protect her feet from the elements. A plain necklace, comprised of crude, iron links, adorns her neck and a black eye-patch covers the upper-right corner of her face. Finally, her right arm is shrouded in bandages.
When travelling or fighting, however, Sarah wears her trusty armaments with pride. Although her hands and joints are left unguarded, to better wield her bow and facilitate movement, respectively, the rest of Sarah's body is covered by chain mail, providing her with a sturdy and reasonably mobile defense. A half helm protects her head but leaves her sight and hearing unimpeded.
Personality: At heart, Sarah is a friendly, if shy, girl. Cheerful to an almost annoying degree and more than a little gullible, she enjoys exchanging pleasantries with just about anyone, be they soldier or villager, human or elf or dwarf or Qunari. A bit too willing to help people out, she often allows herself to be talked into the short end of a deal.
To Sarah, there is a certain peacefulness to simply engaging in everyday life; this is the main reason she practices her, admittedly not that great, cooking with such enthusiasm. If her lifestyle left her with any free time, she'd likely pick up sewing or some other form of crafting, anything that could allow her to feel a degree of normalcy. However, at the same time, she will resent anyone who questions her combat capabilities; insult her skills as a warrior at your own peril.
Though she respects the Chantry and firmly believes in the Maker, Sarah has never really taken the time to learn Andraste's teachings; she's even tried to forget everything she learned as a child. While part of this is due to her inability to read, the other, more prevalent, reason is that she simply believes she should not. No matter how much she wants to lie to herself, Sarah knows that she's something less than human. She is a monster, a horror motivated solely by bloodlust and frenzy, an abomination in the eyes of the Maker and those who serve Him.
However, even a monster can be blessed with a purpose. Sarah fights to eradicate other monsters from the face of the earth, be they villains seeking to prey on the weak, wildlife that has acquired a taste for human flesh, or the Darkspawn. In Sarah's mind, these disgusting creatures are even less worthy of life than she is, and she will do all in her power to ensure that they do not possess it for too much longer.
Of course, all of this fades away when she enters the battlefield.
Sarah acts in one of two ways when fighting. There is her "archer" personality, cold, cunning, and capable of killing without hesitation. And then there's her... other personality. She doesn't like to talk about it much. Or at all, really.
Bio: The daughter of a simple farmer, Sarah was born and raised in a small village to the west of Lothering. A rural place, the village boasted a tiny populace and plenty of crops and livestock, but little in the way of defenders or protection. Which was probably why it made such a tempting target for that band of marauders...
Sarah was only fourteen when bandits razed her village, destroying any chance she might have had at a normal, let alone happy, childhood. The attack was vicious, lightning fast, and utterly without mercy. Those who tried to fight back were cut down without hesitation, those who tried to flee were skewered by arrows, those who tried to surrender were beaten and raped before being executed. In a single night, everything that the young girl knew was destroyed.
When the thieves finally departed, they left nothing but ruin in their wake. Homes were reduced to ash, crops and herds were stolen or destroyed, and the villagers themselves were slaughtered. There was only one survivor of the massacre: a young girl, bearing horrific wounds and missing an eye, who lay helpless upon the bloodstained ground.
Barely alive and unable to move, Sarah lay there for two days as her life drained away. With pain ravaging her body and her mind all but broken, the girl was truly upon death's door when a chance encounter occurred.
Sarah never saw the face of her savior; his ragged, dust-covered cloak saw to that. She never learned his name, his motives, or what he was doing in a ruined village such as this. But, until her dying day, she will never forget his voice.
With words as rich and soothing as chocolate, the stranger praised Sarah for her sheer will to live; it wasn't just anyone who could survive such devastating wounds. There was a slight lilt to his tone, almost as though he was laughing, when he asked her if she wanted to keep on living, or if she would be content to simply pass on. Afraid, she had not answered. Then, his words as cold as winter's ice, he asked if she wanted revenge upon those who had done this to her.
She managed to nod.
Though Sarah was still unable to see the man's face, she could tell he was smiling as he reached into his satchel. Through ears caked with blood and dirt, she heard the sound of a cork being popped. A vial pressed against her lips, and a thick liquid, smelling like rusty iron, poured into her throat. With the last of her strength, she swallowed.
The next week was little more than a blur. If she concentrates, Sarah can sometimes recall snippets of noise or a solitary image, such as the spine-tingling howl of a wolf or a splatter of crimson against a tree tunk. However, the one thing that she can remember with perfect clarity is the pain, the absolute agony, that pulsed throughout her entire body. It felt as though her blood had been replaced with oil and set ablaze, as though her flesh was being flayed from her bones, as though dozens of needles had been jammed into every one of her joints. It was horrible.
But she survived.
Somehow making her way to Lothering, Sarah was taken in and treated by the local Chantry, before they noticed there was something... off about the girl. Really, it was kind of obvious, what with her extreme hostility, her abnormally sharp teeth, and her bizarre preference for raw meat. Rather unsurprisingly, they planned to exorcise the girl. Undoubtedly they would have ended up killing Sarah, had she not caught wind of their plans and escaped.
Wandering about Ferelden, Sarah found herself drawn to scenes of battle and war. After scrounging about for a while, she managed to find herself a set ill-fitting armor and a bow which, thanks to her training with her father's old hunting bow, she could wield with some amount of skill. Calling herself a mercenary, Sarah traveled across the nation, earning her keep by fighting off bandits, monsters, and, when the Blight came, Darkspawn. She became a thing of terror on the battlefield, either shooting her enemies down from afar or slaughtering them en mass.
It was little wonder, considering how close Sarah kept to the battlefield, that she eventually drew the attention of one Fen Arsan. When offered a chance to join the Grey Wardens, Sarah, while not exactly jumping at the opportunity, did eventually accept. The Wardens were, after all, well known for dealing with threats to the general populace, and who knew? Maybe they would be able to find a way to put her bloodlust to good use.
Name: Valerian
Age: 40
Gender: Male
Race: Elf
Class: Mage
Specialization: Battlemage
Abilities: As a mage he uses elemental spells but has focused largely in fire spells, using his power to aid allies while damaging enemies. He also chose it for its general usefulness and significance to the chantry. He also has extensive knowledge in both the arcane and religious due to his background in both. As a trained Battlemage he does have the ability to use those spells as well.
Weapons: He uses a staff made of metal shaped into what boils down into a somewhat ornate club. Being on the frontline he choose solid metal in order to actually be useful when he isn't casting on the frontline.
Appearance: He is a thin man at a height just under the average for a human male, making him somewhat tall for an elf of the area. He has light red hair with blue eyes and his pointed ears very much out him as an elf. He wears no tattoos but does have a few facial scars from the time he has been in battle. One runs from just over his right eye to below it, another runs across his left cheek, and his last is diagonal starting above one lip and ending below the other.
His robes are the standard fair one would find on a mage of the circle of some status. While not a first enchanter they are not those of an apprentice either.
Personality: Valerian is well mannered and generally amicable to those around him. He will become friends with almost anyone possible, the only exceptions being those who would wish to destroy the chantry and or blood mages. The man takes the teachings of the circle and chantry very seriously but realizes not all will follow the same path as him, and is accepting of that fact, so long as their way does not try to destroy that which he cherishes.
He gets along well with templars and has a deep caring for both the chantry and the circle, and would be willing to do what it takes to make sure that the relationship is as undisturbed as possible. To him the mages who complain of oppression do not realize the danger that mages represent, a danger that many other mages, the Templar Order, and Andraste herself recognized. To him the Templers are not a necessary evil, but instead a way of ensuring that not only the world but the mages temselves are protected from the dangers of possession by demons.
If the chantry would allow it he would become a brother, and while he is not an official member, his advocation for Elves to convert to the maker as well as his numerous works for the chantry have gained him some positive regard.
Bio: Valerian had been an orphan in the alienage of Denerim for as long as he could remember, a status which is largely unremarkable due to the poverty in which the alienage exists. He had survived as best he could but the fellow elves had not made it that much nicer. He was not part of a tight knit community as others might have been, the world in which he lived was rather dog eat dog and while they claimed to wish to stick to old traditions, for a long time he associated elven society and religion with hardship, hunger, and poor treatment. When his magical abilities showed themselves at first he merely used them to try and get food to eat, but that soon ended up with him in the hands of the town guard and handed over to the circle.
The unknown first caused fear in him as he was sent to the circle in Lake Calenhad, but once he arrived he quickly learned to love his new surroundings. The circle was safe, he actually had a bed to sleep in, and he could get food without needing to resort to begging or stealing. It also gave him a true sense of community as he found his teachers and many of his fellow mages accepted him. Eventually he also learned that while the Templars could be gruff, and some of them downright nasty, they generally were nice or okay people who were trying to simply make sure the mages didn't get out of hand. He heard many mages complain about the life in the circle, and to him it was only complaints. As he learned the teachings of the chant of light, the dangers of magic, and how it was the chantry that had set up the system that had given him so much, he grew to love the chantry.
Life may not have been easy in the circle, but it was better than what he had been enduring before. For that he was ever thankful for the opportunity he was given.
In learning magic Valerian learned he had a special affection and skill for the arts regarding fire. As a child it had been his ally many times, saving him from death during more than a few winters in Denerim. When he reflects on it he thinks that the significance of fire to both him and the chantry may have been a point of commonality that influenced his acceptance of the religion. However it ultimately mattered little what had lead him to his acceptance, merely that he had and he was happy.
After taking the trial and passing he continued his studies but also looked to work with the chantry whenever possible. Whenever a request came for a mage to aid in one thing or another Valerian always volunteered to go, and would often help the Templers of the circle in the ways he could. In fact some of his closest friends at the circle were not magi but Templers. He had not been chosen to fight in the war but instead was one of those in the circle when many of the mages had been taken over by demons and the circle nearly annulled.
He had fought his way to the safety of the Templers and their barrier at the front gates, and after having seen and fought those abominations he now fully understood just how important the Templers truly were. He lost many friends that day on all sides, because there was not enough care taken with magic he had lost his home yet again. In fact had the Templers annulled the circle, he would have frankly supported the decision even if would have meant his death. What he had seen could not be allowed to escape into the world. Ultimately though that was not the case thanks to the Warden commander and his group, instead of losing his life he was saved and only had his three new scars from having to fight for his life. When the time came to fight back he volunteered and did all that the circle, his home, asked of him. He had played a role in the fight at Denerim, but so had many others and he didn't care to bring it up.
With his experiences he feels that, given the chance, there are three organizations he would give his time and even life for. The chantry and circle for saving his life all those years ago and giving him a chance at a new one, and the Wardens for saving his home and life on the second occasion. To this day he still pushes to be allowed as a brother in the chantry, and even if he never gets accepted he will still praise the Maker until his dying breath for all he had given Valerian.
Age: 40
Gender: Male
Race: Elf
Class: Mage
Specialization: Battlemage
Abilities: As a mage he uses elemental spells but has focused largely in fire spells, using his power to aid allies while damaging enemies. He also chose it for its general usefulness and significance to the chantry. He also has extensive knowledge in both the arcane and religious due to his background in both. As a trained Battlemage he does have the ability to use those spells as well.
Weapons: He uses a staff made of metal shaped into what boils down into a somewhat ornate club. Being on the frontline he choose solid metal in order to actually be useful when he isn't casting on the frontline.
Appearance: He is a thin man at a height just under the average for a human male, making him somewhat tall for an elf of the area. He has light red hair with blue eyes and his pointed ears very much out him as an elf. He wears no tattoos but does have a few facial scars from the time he has been in battle. One runs from just over his right eye to below it, another runs across his left cheek, and his last is diagonal starting above one lip and ending below the other.
His robes are the standard fair one would find on a mage of the circle of some status. While not a first enchanter they are not those of an apprentice either.
Personality: Valerian is well mannered and generally amicable to those around him. He will become friends with almost anyone possible, the only exceptions being those who would wish to destroy the chantry and or blood mages. The man takes the teachings of the circle and chantry very seriously but realizes not all will follow the same path as him, and is accepting of that fact, so long as their way does not try to destroy that which he cherishes.
He gets along well with templars and has a deep caring for both the chantry and the circle, and would be willing to do what it takes to make sure that the relationship is as undisturbed as possible. To him the mages who complain of oppression do not realize the danger that mages represent, a danger that many other mages, the Templar Order, and Andraste herself recognized. To him the Templers are not a necessary evil, but instead a way of ensuring that not only the world but the mages temselves are protected from the dangers of possession by demons.
If the chantry would allow it he would become a brother, and while he is not an official member, his advocation for Elves to convert to the maker as well as his numerous works for the chantry have gained him some positive regard.
Bio: Valerian had been an orphan in the alienage of Denerim for as long as he could remember, a status which is largely unremarkable due to the poverty in which the alienage exists. He had survived as best he could but the fellow elves had not made it that much nicer. He was not part of a tight knit community as others might have been, the world in which he lived was rather dog eat dog and while they claimed to wish to stick to old traditions, for a long time he associated elven society and religion with hardship, hunger, and poor treatment. When his magical abilities showed themselves at first he merely used them to try and get food to eat, but that soon ended up with him in the hands of the town guard and handed over to the circle.
The unknown first caused fear in him as he was sent to the circle in Lake Calenhad, but once he arrived he quickly learned to love his new surroundings. The circle was safe, he actually had a bed to sleep in, and he could get food without needing to resort to begging or stealing. It also gave him a true sense of community as he found his teachers and many of his fellow mages accepted him. Eventually he also learned that while the Templars could be gruff, and some of them downright nasty, they generally were nice or okay people who were trying to simply make sure the mages didn't get out of hand. He heard many mages complain about the life in the circle, and to him it was only complaints. As he learned the teachings of the chant of light, the dangers of magic, and how it was the chantry that had set up the system that had given him so much, he grew to love the chantry.
Life may not have been easy in the circle, but it was better than what he had been enduring before. For that he was ever thankful for the opportunity he was given.
In learning magic Valerian learned he had a special affection and skill for the arts regarding fire. As a child it had been his ally many times, saving him from death during more than a few winters in Denerim. When he reflects on it he thinks that the significance of fire to both him and the chantry may have been a point of commonality that influenced his acceptance of the religion. However it ultimately mattered little what had lead him to his acceptance, merely that he had and he was happy.
After taking the trial and passing he continued his studies but also looked to work with the chantry whenever possible. Whenever a request came for a mage to aid in one thing or another Valerian always volunteered to go, and would often help the Templers of the circle in the ways he could. In fact some of his closest friends at the circle were not magi but Templers. He had not been chosen to fight in the war but instead was one of those in the circle when many of the mages had been taken over by demons and the circle nearly annulled.
He had fought his way to the safety of the Templers and their barrier at the front gates, and after having seen and fought those abominations he now fully understood just how important the Templers truly were. He lost many friends that day on all sides, because there was not enough care taken with magic he had lost his home yet again. In fact had the Templers annulled the circle, he would have frankly supported the decision even if would have meant his death. What he had seen could not be allowed to escape into the world. Ultimately though that was not the case thanks to the Warden commander and his group, instead of losing his life he was saved and only had his three new scars from having to fight for his life. When the time came to fight back he volunteered and did all that the circle, his home, asked of him. He had played a role in the fight at Denerim, but so had many others and he didn't care to bring it up.
With his experiences he feels that, given the chance, there are three organizations he would give his time and even life for. The chantry and circle for saving his life all those years ago and giving him a chance at a new one, and the Wardens for saving his home and life on the second occasion. To this day he still pushes to be allowed as a brother in the chantry, and even if he never gets accepted he will still praise the Maker until his dying breath for all he had given Valerian.
