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[h3]Inquisition Scout Orielle Anthea[/h3]City Elf Mercenary 
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[Indent]Denerim was a bit of a shit place to grow up. By the time she reached seventeen, Orielle had already survived a purge, Tevinter slavers, the Fifth Blight, and a bout of pneumonia. The Alienage was decidedly worse for the wear, and while the rest of the city was quickly rebuilt, her home was mostly left to rot.

Orielle was not having any of that. Nicking a bow from unattended wares, she made her way to the Pearl and forced her way into the employ of the Blackstone Irregulars. 

Which, surprisingly, worked.

Mercenary life was a hell of a lot better than sitting around the Alienage, waiting to get married off. Having coin and freedom for the first time in her life was strange as shite, but absolutely brilliant. Having enough food to eat was worth every job staining her hands red for the highest bidder. 

Of course, then the Conclave happened. The world was back on the brink of ending. 

Not [i]this[/i] shit again.

At least this end of days brought work with it. The Irregulars journeyed west, hired to protect a caravan of supplies meant for Haven. Several of their number made their goodbyes and signed on with the burgeoning Inquisition. Orielle hadn’t meant to join up—but she’d seen the scores of demons decimating the country side, and she couldn’t help but remember being fifteen and hiding from darkspawn. How could she not?


On the tall side for an elven woman, Orielle is best described as lanky. Despite having put on some much needed weight, her cheeks are still just a little too hollow, her features sharpened from years of near-starvation. Despite this, there’s something sickeningly sweet about her—doe eyed and incapable of scowling, Orielle seems out of place on the battlefield. The flowers she likes to weave into her dark braid don’t help her case.[/indent]