Name: Mirianne d'Fleur
Age: 18
Sex: Female
Race: Human
Class/Sub-class: Two-Handed Warrior/Templar

Appearance:


Abilities:

• Block and Slash - She stands ready to deflect the next incoming attack and deliver a punishing counter to her attacker.
• Crushing Blow - She delivers a powerful attack that crumples her foes, knocking them off their feet.
• Spell Purge - Through faith and will, she dispels all hostile magic from the area around her.
• Wrath of Heaven - She summons a pillar of light that blinds nearby enemies and damages demons.
• Serene Presence - She radiates calm faith, inspiring allies to hold fast even in face of overwhelming odds.

Personality: Mirianne is the picture of serene beauty. She never seems to get angry or lose her patience. Her faith in the Maker is unshakable, to point where she will sometime use the Chant of Light in conversation. That said, her real world knowledge is sometimes lacking, giving her a somewhat naive view of the world.

History: Even a glistening gem of a city like Val Royeaux has it's dirty underbelly. Mirianne's family were dirt poor, living in the hidden slums of the holy city. When Marianne's mother was pregnant she fell deathly ill and no healer within her father's price range could help her. Desperate her father undertook the difficult pilgrimage to the Frostback Mountains, hoping to visit the Temple of Sacred Ashes and return with a pinch of the fabled Ashes of Andraste.

The journey was difficult and fraught with danger, and when Mirianne's father returned to Val Royeaux, he was near to death. As was his wife, but fortunately he had brought the ashes in time. They were used to mix a draught that she swallowed moments before going into labour. The birth was long and sadly neither Mirianne's Mother, nor her exhausted and injured father survived. However they both lived long enough to hear their daughter's first cries and, it is said, they passed with smiles.

Mirianne was taken in by the Chantry and raised to be a Sister. However as she grew she showed some interest in the Templars and underwent some informal training alongside them. Her teenage years were disrupted by the Mage-Templar War and the Death of Divine Justinia which threw the Chantry into chaos. It was during this time that Mirianne began to speak of the Voice. A soothing Voice that told her everything would be fine. She spoke of this to the other Clerics, telling them not to worry, that the Voice said all would be well. Scrambling to replace the Divine left the Clerics with little time to listen to the ramblings of a young Sister, and so she went largely ignored.

Once the crisis was over and Divine Victoria was elected, the new Divine came to hear of this sister who claimed to hear voices. Having once believed herself to hear the Voice of the Maker, she went to see Mirianne in person. Mirianne was interviewed by the Divine and all of the College of Clerics for weeks and in the end they all agreed unanimously that Mirianne had been touched by the Maker.

Most believed that the Ashes of Andraste had made Mirianne more receptive than most to the Light of the Maker, while some of the more extreme clerics believed she had been made into a Vessel for Andraste's soul itself. Whatever the truth, the Divine took Mirianne to her side, naming her the Right Hand of the Divine and ensuring her training continued. When news of the Darkspawn invasion reached Divine Victoria, she placed Mirianne at the head of her task force.

Name: Colin Roche
Age: 27
Sex: Male
Race: Human
Class/Sub-class: Duel-Wield Rogue/Duelist

Abilities:
Dance of Death – He gains confidence and control with each defeated opponent, giving him the strength to keep on fighting.
Unforgiving Chain - His daggers are a blur and he is an opportunist, this with his speed and stamina make him a deadly foe to fight for any extended duration.
Combat Movement – He dances around his enemies awaiting the fatal flaw in their defence.
Coup de grâce – Against stunned or badly wounded opponents he is death itself, able to deliver brutal finishers to multiple weakened foes.
Deft Hands, Fine Tools – His colourful past has left him with some useful, but usually criminal skills.



Personality: Colin is courageous, impulsive, angry, prone to violence and sarcastic as hell. He's generally just in it for gold and good times and doesn't really care what “it” happens to be as long as there are people to fight and renown to be earned. He very much enjoys fighting, especially with his fists and takes great pleasure in toying with friends and foes alike who take combat too seriously, which is just about everyone. He's confident in his abilities, arrogant most would say and it shows both in and out of combat. Over everything else he wants glory.



History: Colin grew up in the city of Denerim in Fereldan, the son of a local tavern wench. He never knew his father and he never really cared. His mother took great care of him despite his constantly getting intro trouble as a child. He’d fight nearly every other day as a kind of youthful distraction. Him and a few good friends would group up and fight kids from the cities other neighborhoods for no other reason than that they were bored. It wasn’t too long before they found out that their reckless energy could be used to get gold and soon they were acting in cut-purse units. One or two kids causing a distraction and one, usually Colin sneaking in and cutting the purse strings. At this time however it was more for a bit of fun than anything else.

A couple of years later a sickness swept through the slums of Denerim and Colin’s mother took sick and simply didn’t get better. Colin was 10 at this time, and it was then that his practice as a cut-purse and fighter would start to really matter. From then on cut-pursing became a regular part of his life, and it wasn’t simply for a laugh anymore. He found as the next couple of years went on however that people were getting more and more careful with their purses and the city guards became ever watchful. It was then that a good friend introduced him to lock-picking and burglary. He had a knack for all things thievery it seemed, and learned how to pick locks quickly. He made a lot of money selling things that didn’t belong to him, but eventually made the mistake of selling some goods to an apparently honest man.

So he lost a finger for that crappy 80 bit vase. It definitely wasn’t worth it, but shit happens. He was around fourteen years of age now and the years had been reasonably kind. He stole enough to keep him relatively well fed and he and his friends still had fun fighting in the back alleys. It was at that time when he first discovered the fighting pits. Back alley fights where people placed bets and the fighters were paid well. Colin thought he’d discovered his dream job. Luckily he was big for his age and convinced the fight organizer that he was sixteen instead of his true age. Not that the bloke actually cared about anything more than the money. So at fourteen he entered his first real fight. He was beaten bloody. Worst beating he’d ever taken at that age, and he’d taken more than a few. Still, he was undeterred. Three months and several unofficial gang fights later he was back in the ring. Once again he was beaten, but this time he gave quite the beating in return. A month later he was back and this time he won, dodging most of his opponents strikes, dislocating his arm and pummeling his face. As he stood and his opponent didn’t he felt better than he ever had before in his life. Power. Pride. Something. He loved it.

He found himself back in that ring over a hundred times in the next six or so years. He became incredibly skilled in hand to hand combat and for a time he was the main attraction of the pit-fighting world. Eventually though someone made a comment about fighting with steel being real fighting and for some reason he couldn’t get it out of his head. Maybe he’d get that feeling again. That feeling he had felt after winning, truly winning for the first time.

So, because of a stupid remark by a random person he joined The Blackstone Irregulars and began training with his first two iron daggers. He wasn’t that great with blades at first but luckily some skills from fist fighting were transferable. He moved very well, he was patient for kill opportunities and best of all he was seemingly fearless. Once again he learned quickly and it wasn’t long before he was sent out on contracts. Over the next seven years he killed deserters, guarded merchants, killed bandits, recovered stolen supplies and did all other types of petty soldier work. The man was right about one thing. Killing was exhilarating, but there were things that he despised about the job. Firstly, he wasn’t paid very well. Secondly he didn’t get any of the glory of his actions. Everyone he killed, every contract he did well, all of the thanks went straight to the Blackstone Irregulars.

It was that little fact that made him decide to leave the company and instead start out as an independent sellsword. He wanted the gold and glory he bought so often with others blood.

Name: Ansgar Staudinger

Age: 58

Sex: Male

Race: Human

Allegiance: Ferelden Crown

Class/Sub-class: Warrior | Reaver

Appearance:




Abilities:
Devour - "It is a thirst that cannot be slaked. Each enemy dead, another few moments onto my life in the heat of battle. A curse, or a blessing. Decide for yourself." - Ansgar feasts upon the souls of slain foes, their lingering energy revitalizing him, closing wounds and staving off death for another battle. It only takes him a few moments concentration before the dead spirits energy is stolen away from the dead, creating an unsettling wind centering on Ansgar before his wounds close.

Blood Frenzy - "I have memories, vague, in crimson tints. Of a warrior lost in battle, demons possessing his form, the closer to death's sweet release, the greater his mad fury. Then I awake, in cold sweats, and a somber, chilling thought rings clear in the doubt and despair. Those aren't always my memories, yet they fit the thinker perfectly..." - The pain of each wound landed against him only increases his fury and prowess in combat, when he releases the demons within him. While in this form, the demons prevent the natural healing of his body as the vessel is imperfect, yet the closer to expiring the vessel gets, the more extreme the damage he can deal.

Two Handed Mastery - "The longer I live, the better I have gotten with my accursed blade. It's power has long since left it, I am the new vessel, but it is far better than your average steel blade. Those who would cross blades with me will regret it, even without the demons, I am no target to attack lightly..." - Ansgar has focused all his combat training onto the use of his greatsword, a nameless blade that once bore great corruption, and even before that point when he served as a regular soldier.

Death Blow - "Each fallen foe restores my vitality, each fallen foe restores my hope that a blessed end to combat is one step closer. I cannot fail, cannot falter, not until I have finally been slain. Then I can rest in whatever Hell the Maker sees fit to place me in for my transgressions." - Each enemy that Ansgar fells restores part of his stamina, increasing how long he can fight all out. Coupled with drawing in the life force of fallen enemies, it makes him a terror on the battlefield.

Reaving Storm - "Subtle isn't a strong point of mine, in a fight, to begin with. When faced with masses of enemies, mortal or darkspawn, I cannot afford the luxury of single blows, and the demons will not afford the luxury to me. Numbers will not save them." - Each mighty swing of Ansgar's dark blade can claim numerous heads with one mighty cleave, which can be taxing on the stamina of the warrior without some method of keeping his stamina up. Ansgar, however, does and in the right situation, he is a juggernaut on the field.

Personality: Ansgar has a split personality, to put it bluntly, which can be shocking to people who only see him on the battlefield, or off of it, how drastic a change these two men are. When not in a combat situation, the warrior is quiet and contemplative, speaking in a highly intelligent manner that is often accented with polite manners of speech and a steadfast refusal to ever become offended or angered. He tends towards a loner mentality, finding a secluded part of a camp to meditate and center himself, and as far as most people are typically aware, he is merely doing this for the sake of some martial tradition, as it is typically how he explains it away. He isn't lying, but he certainly is not telling the truth either. He isolates himself for the safety of others, and seems unusually loyal to anyone who insists in getting to know the warrior, as they are a rare few and far between.

In combat, one can be forgiven for not recognizing Ansgar at all. Once a battle breaks out, the demons inside the tortured man surge forward, and it is all that Ansgar can do to not lash out at allies, barely controlling the demonic fury to kill everything as he guides his body towards the enemy. He shows a blatent disregard for any and all self preservation, seeming solely focused on one very clear goal. Slaughter anything that stands against him and anyone lucky, or unlucky, enough to not be in his definition of enemy at the time. Ansgar fights with a wild abandon seen only in those with nothing left to lose, and facing certain death, with every battle. Even his fighting style in combat reflects his possessed status. Eyes burning with red fury, abyss black blade drenched in blood, each swing aiming for maximum damage with no care for his own survival, and its with amazement spirit healers and field surgeons look upon him coming back, unwilling to believe he had survived in the state he marches back in.

History: Ansgar Staudinger was born to a family of military lifers, veterans who chose to stay in until they were too old to fight, and would proceed to train oncoming generations of soldiers instead. His mother was an archer that died in child birth, and before he ever met his father, a bold knight that defended his brothers and sisters with shield and blade, the man met his end upon the blades of brigands in ambush. Raised by his father's fellow knights, he was raised solely to fight against any and all who would turn out to be hostile to the realm of Ferelden. He proved a natural with a great two handed sword, and he was taught well in such a manner that, at 9.18 Dragon when his birthday came to, the knights that had befriended his father gave him the fallen man's armor and had reforged his equipment to fit the young man's tastes. It was a grand day for him, and for twelve years he would serve within the Ferelden army as a brave, loyal soldier who enjoyed learning and bettering himself through any means offered to him, something looked upon favorably as he rose in rank.

That all changed after the Fifth Blight broke out, and Ansgar was among the forces who would march to Ostagar and fight the Darkspawn there. It was expected to be an easy breaking of the Darkspawn horde, no suspicion that there was indeed an Archdemon in their ranks, and this was a full blown Blight after all. History took its course, and while Ansgar fought bravely with his brothers to hold off the Darkspawn, a mighty blow from an Ogre cast him from the ramparts, and all would assume the veteran warrior had been slain, either from the ogre or the fall. And to be fair, Ansgar was near death when he came to, with countless broken bones, his blade shattered, and his armor damaged. But he was yet alive, and breathing, the darkspawn and fighting forces gone. Ostagar had fallen, he could tell, which meant that things had not gone as planned. He was, at the time, unaware that King Theirin was slain and betrayed, and only a handful of other survivors, Grey Wardens included, had escaped. But his wounds were bad, and he had a broken greatsword and damaged armor to protect him in these no doubt infested woods. It was a miracle, or a curse, that he managed to survive long enough to stumble upon a long forgotten fort.

It was a small place, old and clearly forboding. Most would have known better and turned away, but a dying warrior cared little for such things. So Ansgar entered the place, descending to the deepest part of the fort, torches lighting of their own volition as he dragged himself along, unable to collapse and give up now. Before long he found a shrine, with a black, abyssial blade on an alter, with a flask of crimson fluid on top of it. Countless dead surrounded the alter, all recently slain despite how old the place was, and the scroll of stone above the makeshift alter spoke of great power, even above death, for those that would imbibe the blood of Dragons. Ansgar would normally not put credence in such myths and heresay, but the mind of a dying man will reach for any reason to exist, especially since he knew the Darkspawn were yet to be halted. So he drank the flask's contents in full, feeling a fire in his belly and something else inside his mind, fighting him for control. The blood was indeed of a Dragon, but had been cursed with the spirit of a Demon. The blood power of a Reaver was all that saved him from succumbing as the others had and falling upon his own ruined blade.

Taking up the blade on the alter, Ansgar shut out the whispers and ragings of the voices that now were in his head, feeling his wounds close as the spirits of the dead around him drew close, binding his wounds and making his bones whole again. He would make his way out of the fort, surrounded by a band of Darkspawn that had found the human's bloody trail. He doesn't readily remember what happened after that, but in a bloody fury he had cut down the band of Darkspawn, nearly tearing himself apart in the process, and he would come to properly in a tavern bed days later, his armor mended and the black blade, gleaming with a silver edge, and with a look in the mirror he was shocked to be missing an eye, a mess of scar tissue remaining in its place. His armor remained as it had been, and as he pulled the helm and sheathed the blade, the voices came back in a torrent, threatening to lose all control at that moment in time. But he was able to resist, slipping out of the tavern and heading for wherever the Darkspawn congregated the thickest. During the year of the Fifth Blight, stories of this warrior would arise, a voiceless figure of death and rage, cleaving grand paths through the Darkspawn forces wherever they reared their ugly heads.

With the Warden slaying the Archdemon, the Darkspawn fled, but Ansgar was still left with his Reaver blood, and the voices in his head that grew loud without their thirst being slaked. He would seek out Apostate mages, as he couldn't trust the mage circles, in the hopes of freeing himself from the demonic voices in his head. He would spend his time unaware of the goings on in Kirkwall, but when rebellion broke out he would find himself protecting the very same Apostate mages, and circle mages as they rose up, that had at least tried to help him and gave him means of controlling the corrupting influence. Templars would speak of the figure with fear and revulsion, the bloody demon of a warrior often times arriving without a word, engaging in wholesale slaughter of any Templars that attempted to strike against the rebel mages. Even the mages he protected would be cautious and frightened of the forboding figure, a man of black armor swathed with azure cloth with a midnight black blade with silver lining, eyes of glowing red evil under his armored hood as he made slaughter a sport upon the Templar.

When the Conclave would explode, instead of fighting Templars, Ansgar would turn his blade upon the demons and invading forces from the rifts. Still claiming loyalty to the Ferelden crown, but serving in no official capacity, he would go wherever the demons invaded, regardless of Inquisition interference or not. He could not close the demonic gateways, but he could kill enough of them to hold long enough for reinforcements to arrive. Eventually even those demons would be gone, leaving the unholy swordsman without a cause again. Ansgar would roam wherever his feet took him, keeping an eye on the world while remaining as isolated as he could be to prevent his addled mind from snapping somewhere he would cause harm to others. The sheer amount of blood and suffering, both his and others, that had been spilled had satiated the voices for some time, only rising up in times of combat at this point to take charge if they could. When the Darkspawn rose again, after the quakes in Tevinter, and Ansgar immediately took to arms, heading towards the Darkspawn with the intent of fighting with whomever he happened to find himself alongside. But the call went out from Ferelden and Orlais to form the great Southern army, and the Divine herself called out for heroes of all walks to form a vanguard of the army. While he was no hero, he intended to join this band, a it would put him in the forefront of the fighting, and perhaps he would earn a brief rest before whatever Hell the Maker had set aside for him.

Name: Killian Tavus
Age: 19
Sex: Male
Race: Human
Class/Sub-class: Mage/Blood Mage

Appearance:


Abilities:

• Flashfire - Killian casts a fireball from his hand which burns his enemy and may send them into a panic.
• Immolate - Killian unleashes a blast of fire around himself to burn and drive back enemies that get too close or attempt to surround him.
• Blood Magic - Killian is able to tap into the power of life-blood itself, either by calling on the blood of his enemies or by cutting open his own veins to access his own blood. In doing so he is able to strengthen his magic, continue fighting when his mana is expended, and use powerful abilities restricted to the Maleficar arts.
• Blood Boil - Killian boils the blood in his enemy's veins, causing intense pain and leaving them unable to take any action. Weaker or wounded enemies may even die outright as their hearts give out.
• Blood Slave - Killian subjugates the mind of a weak willed enemy forcing obedience and absolute loyalty. Outside of combat the spell may last indefinitely, until Killian ends it himself, the victim expires, or Killian is distracted by fighting. In combat the concentration required to enslave a mind and not get his head chopped off means he can only maintain control for limited amounts of time.

Personality: Killian is best described as a Cynical Altruist. He wants to do good, but accepts that sometimes evil must be fought with evil. It was a hard lesson to learn and not one he enjoyed learning, but if he wasn't willing to get his hands dirty every now and then, he knows that he would have been crushed by his rivals long ago.

History: Born an Altus of the Tevinter Empire, and son of a high ranking Magister no less, Killian spent his childhood living in comfort and training under the best tutors to master his Magical gift when it arose. During his young adolescence he became friendly and quite enamoured with a young Elven slave girl that served his family, and as time passed it became clear she returned his affections. The girl was a kitchen slave, barely fit to scrub dishes as far the Imperium was concerned but to Killian she was a princess. As the sole heir of a Magister, Killian wielded some power within the household and he used as much of it as he dared to ensure his love was treated well, for a slave, and that he could see her as much as possible.

Then when Killian was seventeen his Elven lover fell pregnant and his father became aware of the relationship. While the odd trist with a comely slave was nothing to be ashamed of in Tevinter, Killian's father was not about to have his first grandchild be a half-blood brat born to a knife-eared slave. That evening Killian was called to his father's study where he found his father and his love waiting. The young woman was in chains and, after paralyzing Killian with blood magic, he made Killian watch as he killed both the girl and their unborn child. In rage and despair, Killian called upon the teachings blood magic he'd been reluctantly learning and broke his father's hold, he then empowered himself with blood of his slain love and unleashed his wrath on his father, leaving nothing but a bloody smear behind.

Authorities came to the conclusion that Killian's father had been assassinated by one of his rivals. Who would believe that a young fledgling such as Killian could have succeeded in such a task. As a result Killian's crime went unpunished and he succeeded his father as the youngest member of the Magisterium. Many saw Killian as easy prey but he had learned a powerful lesson in his father's study: That he must be willing to go to any lengths to protect what he cared about. For two years Killian's cunning and ruthlessness allowed him to survive the politics of the Magisterium, during which time he perfected his use of Blood Magic, though he refrained from using unwilling blood sacrifices, unless it was the blood of his enemies. Killian was lucky enough to be away from Minrathous, visiting one of his Family's holdings in the south of the Imperium, when the earthquakes buried the capital and the darkspawn invasion began. He fled to Nevarra with the other refugees before turning his gaze back to north, burning with desire to avenge his homeland.

Name: Talon Nailo
Age: 25 (Human years)
Sex: Male
Race: Elf
Class/Sub-class: Mage/Knight-Enchanter

Appearance:

Abilities:

Ice Mine: Mark the ground with a glyph that takes a short time to prime. Once it is ready, it will freeze the first target to step on it.

Blizzard: Summon a freezing blizzard to chill and damage enemies caught in the area.

Fade Shield: Draws back the energy released by enemies in attacks against them. Any successful attack strengthens the barrier. The more damage done, the more powerful the barrier grows. 

Spirit Blade: Creates a blade of solid magic to make melee attacks against nearby enemies.

Oak Felling Blade: Talon channels his indomitable spirit into his Spirit Blade and creates a massive two handed blade. Can knock groups of enemies to the ground but deals minimal damage unless used against a single foe.

Personality: Bright and kind. Nothing in his life had beaten the warmth from his smile yet and it didn't seem like anything ever would. The only time the Elf ever seemed to lose his smile was when he was hard at the task of eliminating his enemies, especially the dark spawn. He is cold and collect then, much how one would imagine the old world elves holding themselves when they first fought the darkspawn.

The group of circle mages he had been brought up around were almost entirely men, as such he hasn't the first clue on how to interact with women. It can be quite the spectacle.

History: You would never know that Talon had spent his childhood in an alienage. He had been an unrelenting ray of light up until he had begun to show signs that he could connect to the fade. Even when one of his own kind had sold him out to the city guard for food and he had been torn from the arms of his parents to be taken to the Circle; he kept his head up. He called reassurances back to the both of them and promised he would earn his freedom and see them again. The last image he held in his mind of them was his father holding his hysterical mother.

His promise and that image are what kept the fire stoked within his heart as an adult. He had completed one of the fastest Harrowings ever recorded, so much so that he was nearly judged a demon himself. He worked hard as a Circle mage and drank up all of the knowledge that was put before him. He accumulated more and more favor in the eyes of his superiors and quickly became one of the highest held among the fledgling mages.

Unfortunately, any ranking or standing he had been able to earn was all for not. The circle was no more and, at first, he thought he'd just make his way home to see his parents for the first time in many, many years. Sadly, They had both passed some years before and the elven man now felt quite lost. He had always driven himself to be the best so that he may see them again one day but the dream had been hallow for so long. He needed guidance, and something to fill the hole that his deceased parents had left in him. He remembered hearing of elven apostates, Dalish if he remembered right. They would create small settlements out in the deep wood and some of them were said to be quite powerful mages.

He had spent months looking for a settlement that would take him in, the first few couldn't get passed the fact that he had been raised in the Circle for so long. One day he caught a break and found group of Dalish that had already taken in a small band of prior circle mages. They took him in and this is where he had been spending the last few years, learning everything the Dalish would teach him and wondering where life might take him next.

He didn't have to wonder long

There had been a man, a human, that would trade with them quite frequently. He was obviously some kind military deserter. He always had the most interesting news to share with their small group and his prices were beyond fair, so they welcomed him for bartering above any else. One day he had come to them with that special light in his eyes that Talon had learned to be a sign of particularly interesting news. As it turned out there was an immense army gathering and the divine her self was searching for a talented few to organize into some sort of forward party.

This was his chance

A chance to finally, truly, prove to the world that what he had learned wasn't just book knowledge or private practice. A chance to make serious change to the ever darkening land. This could be his time to really make a difference in the world as a whole. Sure, the Dalish had so much to teach him yet, but this was an opportunity he couldn't pass up. He gave up everything he had and made his way that next morning.

Name: Garlenn Fellhammer
Age: 38
Sex: M
Race: Dwarf
Class/Sub-class: Warrior

Appearance:

Abilities:

• Shield Bash
• Shield Pummel
• Taunt
• Bravery
• Power Attack

Personality: Garlenn's gruff and boisterous, and is always ready for a good scrap. He's got a savvy mind, reflected on his oft grinning face. He'll kill (most) anyone or anything if there's good enough coin. He tends to respect certain peoples more than others and goes easy on them.

History: Born as a Dwarf commoner who grew up in poverty, stealing, exploring the deep roads for abandoned valuable, and dealing under the table with merchants. When the 5th blight showed up, he had a weird sense of loyalty to his people, and many Dwarves agreed that whatever happened in this blight, they would be hit hard. Garlenn joined the Legion of the Dead, and he and his fellows fought for every inch of ground. Garlenn was among the most feircesome of fighters in the Legion. For despite his underhanded nature, he truly valued his race and homeland. That is, until the war was over.

He fought and bled for his people, almost seeing it as a way to atone for his criminal acts. And after all of that, he realized that there never was a place for him in this society that wouldn't be in poverty. Well fuck that. The stone take them all. He'd rather the surface world instead, and so he did. He made his way to the surface, and decided to make his living as a mercenary, traveling across Ferelden and Orlais, killing bandits, beasts, and all manner of enemies. When he heard Darkspawn had returned however...they were always on the top of his list.

Name: She is called Eloen and has no known last name.
Age: Eloen does not know how old she is, but she looks to be in her early twenties.
Sex: Female
Race: Elf
Class/Sub-class: Rogue/Archer



Appearance:



Abilities:

• Death from Above - Eloen inflicts more damage when she is firing on enemies below her.
• First Blood - Eloen can pinpoint enemies that have received no damage and can do extra damage against these targets.
• Long Shot - Eloen fires a single shot, which does more damage the further away she is from an opponent.
• Leaping Shot - Eloen can dive out of the way of those who get too close to her, and leave behind a hail of arrows.
• Explosive Shot - A specialized arrow that explodes on impact, damaging enemies around the initial target.

“Give all you can, even when you know you will get nothing in return.”

Personality: Upon first glace Eloen appears reserved and passive. These traits might have been born of her unfortunate upbringing, leading her to rarely engage in unprovoked conversation or make eye contact with those around her. Beneath this layer of obedience is her undying hope. Eloen has the ability to see the good in anything situation, no matter how devastating. She also sees the best in people, even those who would hurt her. She wants what Is best for others, and would do anything within her power to help those who need it. She knows what its like to be the one without a voice, and she wants everyone to be heard, even if she is the only one to listen to their struggles.

This extreme form of forgiveness can come with fault, as Eloen can come off as extremely naive and unwise. She also is known to put her trust in people who would take advantage of her kindness, although she doesn't seem to mind this. She doesn't enjoy getting in fights, especially with sentient foes. She will often try to talk her way out of a fight, not wanting to hurt those who could be persuaded to lay down their arms.



History:

Only Eloen's earliest memories tell of her life before her times in Tevinter. Eloen believes that she once lived in an elven Alienage. She vaguely remembers shanty homes made of splintering wood, kicking round stones in the streets, a large tree wrapped in ribbon and paper. Eloen recalls one night being awoken by a strange human man in her bedroom. He convinced the young girl that he was a friend of her father and mother and then lured her outside with the promises of food and toys.

Eloen was lead by the stranger through the dark alienage, wishing she had taken the time to grab her slippers, keeping quiet at the thought of having some new toys to play with. Soon they came to a house Eloen didn't recognize. The strange man grabbed Eloen by her wrist, his grip like a vice around her thin arm. The man then knocked a strange sequence of knocks on the door and after a few moments of silence the door opened with a grating squeak.

Inside the building was dark, but the faint glow of the moon illuminated the room just enough for Eloen to see what was within. Huddled in one of the back corners of the room was a group of maybe ten or so elves, some she recognized and some she didn't, all looking scared and tense. The strange, still with his grip on Eloen's arm, exchanged words with the man who opened the door. The doorman then handed the other a bag of coins and took Eloen's arm for himself. He corralled the nervous girl into the corner with the other elves, giving her a hard shove to the back and sending her tumbling into the group.

Eloen looked up at the leaving stranger, and before she could ask him where the food was he closed the door behind him. Leaving the elves in the dark.

Somehow the girl was able to fall asleep, but was awoken moments later by the rattling of shackles being fastened to her ankles and wrists. They were cold and heavy. The confused girl began to weep for her parents, but was quickly silenced by a fist to the gut. Under the threat of violence the elves were moved silently out of the building and into a covered wagon. Eloen watched through a tear in the canvas the slowly disappearing sight of the alienage.

The journey to Tevinter was dark and cold. The elves were not permitted to speak, but they all knew what was happening. Even Eloen eventually came to terms with what was happening, and what would soon happen to all of them.

Eloen was sold as a slave when she was eight years old to a family of Magisters. Eloen still considers herself lucky. Some slaves were sold off for hard labor or worse, sacrifices. Instead Eloen found herself being given as a gift from a father to a daughter. The daughter was only slightly younger then Eloen, and needed a handmaiden. Throughout the years Eloen's duties remained quite the same. Mending, cooking, cleaning. Helping her Mistress get dressed in her fanciful garments or help her braid her hair. It was during these years of enslavement when Eloen learned about the grace of the Bow. Her mistress was quite a fan of competitive archery, and often found herself without an opponent, meaning Eloen was given a chance to hold a weapon. She didn't realize it at the time, but she was being handed the opportunity to hurt. To free herself. But the thought never crossed her mind. Eloen often found herself learning about the horrors of slavery, of those beaten to death or slaughtered for sacrifice. But she also learned of the outside world. Of the elf who fixed the sky.

Eloen had never dreamed before, not before the events of the inquisition. But shortly after learning about what had transpired, Eloen had a dream. In this dream Eloen saw a beautiful elven women with glowing silver hair. She was told that things are about to change, and that she would need to be kind to all she met.

The next morning Eloen awoke disoriented, unable to tell if the events that had transpired in the night had been real or a part of her imagination. She decided to interpety the glowy elves message as a sign that something new would be occuring at her masters home. Maybe her Mistress was to get married, or would decide to make changes in her wardrobe.

A few days later Eloen was among several other elves to be “relocated”. There were horrified whispers around what being relocated meant, but most assumed it meant that you were being taken as sacrifice to some far off location. To be used in a magic ritual. As Eloen and other slaves were being chained together in a line many began to wail and cry, but Eloen tried to keep a spark of hope. She was determined not to let despair win. She thought of the strange glowing elf from her dreams.

And Prayed.

During the journey great earthquakes shook the ground. Spooking horses and sending the wagon that held all the slaves toppling over. During the chaos and confusion several slaves were able to flee. Eloen was among them. Most of them fled in different directions, disoriented and unsure where to go. Eloen, although she had never traveled so far alone and struggled to run with chains around her limps, felt like her feet moved true and her heart knew what direction to move in.

And so she ran, with arm fulls of chains, to her own freedom.

Name: Astyth Cadash

Age: 37 (She swears shes 29)

Sex: Female

Race: Dwarf

Class/Sub-class: Warrior/Champion

Appearance: More often then not Astyths' battle scarred features are kept slightly hidden beneath an ever present hood or helmet. On the rare occasions that she does let her hood down a a deep raven black pixie cut hairstyle stands out along with the impossible to hide S shaped tattoo on her right cheek. She seems to have an ever present scowl across her battle scarred and wind whipped face; more often then not this look comes off as something resembling a sneering smile. A few hand crafted beads dangle in the hair above her piercing green eyes, eyes that seem to rather fit her defiant pitbullish face. Her second most recognizable facial feature has to be her somewhat crooked nose (the damn thing clearly having been broken a few times.) At her full height she stands at a whopping 4'6”, although her stout muscular frame looks much more intimidating while encased in thick iron plate mail.

A slightly younger pic:




Personality: To sum Astyth up in one word would be care free: regardless of the rough hand life dealt her or whatever negative situation she stumbles into she never seems to lose her genuine “cheeriness” that almost comically mirrors her somewhat gruff exterior. Quick at a joke and to buy you a drink she is the type of woman whom always seems in control of her situation-combat or otherwise. Despite her jovial attitude she does have a somewhat sore spot when it comes to anything Orzamar related.

History: Born the lowest of the low in a society where position is everything Astyth was quick to learn just how important standing up for herself was, a fact that lead her down a path of constant fights and run ins with the law. In this world the fact of the matter was her family could either starve or eat off the coin she earned doing things many claimed the paragons frowned upon.

Sod the paragons.

The stone had found it fit to give Astyth a hard body and soft soul, a fact that clashed with the day to day dealings of her various “jobs”. Nonetheless for eighteen long years Astyth begrudgingly locked her conscience away.

After years of hard work, shady dealings, and a fair amount of blood Astyth had made her way up to a position of some actual importance-at least it was an important position to the far to numerous casteless that occupied Dust Town. For almost a year things had begun to look up for Astyth, serving just underneath a wicked woman named Jarvia had brought her more wealth than she had ever seen up to that point in her life-she had so much money she was even able to afford a fancy looking ring for her younger sister, real diamond an everything.

All good things must come to an end as they say though, something Astyth truly took to heart after the death of Jarvia-an event that created a power vacum unseen in Dust Town for as long as Astyth could remember. One thing led to another and before Astyth knew it she was taking her first (and hesitant) steps onto the surface, the ensuing blood bath in Dust Town having earned her and a handful of other teary eyed dwarfs a one way ticket above ground.

Amazingly Astyth was shocked to find that she took to surface life far better than she would have ever imagined; her mace and shield quickly finding her work as she was drug off on various adventures throughout her years of traveling. And even more impressive was how almost all of those large bumbling humans didn't pay any heed to her permanently tattooed face-to them she was 'just another dwarf.'

Chronologically Astyth left both the Carta and Orzammar when she was 20 years old (9:30) and made her living as a freelance mercenary of sorts until meeting Lady Nightingale by chance around the year 9:34. Although rarely meeting directly she went on to work as a trusted agent of the infamous left hand of the then Divine Justinia-the more years Astyth worked for the clever red headed spy master the more her adoration for the woman grew. From 9:37-9:40 her missions commonly involved tracking down the dangerous use of blood magic so prevalantly ignored in the midst of the Mage and Templar fighting at the time along with the infiltration of seemingly half the damn better organized bandit groups that had sprung up to take advantage of the aforementioned Mage and Templar conflict. In the year 1941 she was officially unofficially brought in to the inquisition as a mere thread in the vast web of Lelianas spy network. These days she continues to serve the now Divine Victoria with an almost religious zeal in and of itself. She does not believe in the Maker nor the Stone; if she were to have faith in anything it would be in Divine Victoria herself.