Each day is a high climb, you know
Some days your body has to carry on
So you gotta show a little backbone.
Titles/Nicknames: Cor, usually. Also Captain, for those who like ranks.
Age: 26 (9:45)
Race: Elf
Gender: Male
Sexual Orientation: Comfortably bisexual.
Class: Warrior
Specialization: Champion.
Hair Color: Ebony.
Eye Color: Wintergreen.
Height: 6'0"
Build: Lean-looking, but surprisingly solid.
Appearance: While most of his positive physical attributes can be firmly credited to years of excellent training, Corvin's genetics have never really done him any harm, either. Some combination of luck and regular nutrition in his adolescence enabled him to reach a height somewhat rare for elves, and a muscularity rarer still. The latter takes a lot of active maintenance, of course, but he certainly doesn't lack for it, given his profession and organizational affiliation.
For all that, though, it's hard to mistake him for anything but the city elf he is. His face is bare of the distinguishing marks of the Dalish, still a little more youthful than his actual age warrants, but sharpening with time. Years on the march and in the sun have darkened his naturally fair complexion to a sparsely-freckled medium tan. The calluses on his hands testify to the work he still puts in on a regular basis, with armaments and without. There's something fundamentally rough around the edges about him in that way—he lacks the visual refinement of the kinds of elves who make their livings indoors or among the upper classes.
Cor’s attitude towards his appearance is somewhat contradictory. While he dresses for function, he also has a clear and particular consciousness about how to look good doing it, and feels no shame about that. He's not particularly boastful about the roguish charm of his dimpled smile, or the remarkable deep green of his eyes, but neither does he pretend they aren't there. He used to be rather impressed with his looks, actually, and while he still certainly doesn’t think himself homely, his confidence in this respect has been tempered somewhat. Where his former preference was for loose-necked tunics, he now goes to some trouble to make sure he’s always wearing at least one solid layer of linen over most of his body. This is a precaution, as his chest, abdomen, and parts of his neck and arms bear extensive scarring: an absolute hash of white and pink tissue, smooth with time but webbed over much of him. Excellent healing means he isn’t missing any large chunks of flesh, but it’s certainly not pretty regardless.
Still, he takes care of himself, from keeping his gear in good shape to ensuring that the nearly-black hair he wears long is clean and lush rather than disheveled and ragged. There's a certain kind of risk in this—elves that walk too tall and take too much visible pride in themselves are likely to be accused of thinking themselves above where they should be, or putting on airs. The accusations are often enough made by others of their kind as well as humans, actually.
If that concerns him, though, he does a poor job of showing it. Typically, Corvin's body language conveys consummate ease, the kind of comfort in his own dimensions that he utterly lacked as a reedy teenager. He wears armor as though it were a second skin, and carries any number of weapons like extensions of his person rather than foreign objects. While he'd never go out of his way to seem dangerous or threatening, sometimes that utter familiarity and competence with instruments of death can make him so anyway.
x
Kind of have to, with so many eyes around.”
Credit
Not the kind of liar that deceives with his words, exactly, or even his actions. Rather, it's his demeanor that is deceptive, that works to hide the layers of him from perusal and understanding. He affects a rather superficial personality to those that do not know him well, one that allows him to be passed off as a sort of empty-headed youth, concerned with the pursuit of personal enjoyment and theatrical heroics. A little cocky, a little vain, more than happy to crack a joke in just about any situation and incapable of taking anything too seriously. The quintessential young mercenary, wet behind the ears and greener than the first shoots of spring, as many young men of his age inevitably are. He's got a swagger to his walk, a veneer of polished lassitude, and a laconic, wry tongue. All of these things match well with the fresh-faced, crooked-smiling look of him, and because it all adds up, it presents a complete picture just as it is.
Really though, almost every part of it is a flat-out diversion, a way to draw the attention in one direction so that the rest is easily missed altogether. Peeling back the layers is something that takes a great deal of time and effort, as well as the kind of trust he does not easily grant, but those whom he considers his friends eventually come to understand that while the sense of humor and a certain amount of his apparent joie de vivre are genuine enough, most of the rest is not.
Cor is a deeply-sensitive sort of person, one ill-disposed to make genuine connections because he takes each one that he does have so damned seriously. There is scarcely a more loyal friend to be had, and the depth of it in him is such that there is painfully little he would not do for his friends. He also tends to care about their opinions a great deal, perhaps too much. It makes him at once brave and cowardly: brave in what he is willing to risk, cowardly in his fear of expressing the same. He prefers to let his actions speak for him, if anything must speak. Truthfully, he'd just as soon not be noticed at all, but the nature of his work and his position relative to both the Argent Lions and the Inquisition make that all but impossible. The amount of charisma at his disposal is rather exceptional, and he feels it's his responsibility to put that to use, meaning that he doesn't get to linger in the back of groups or behind people who might enjoy attention more but command it less well.
And so he deflects instead of hiding, presenting the facade for scrutiny and knowing that the criticism it endures never quite strikes to the heart of him, because he doesn't leave his heart exposed. He idolizes his mentor Lucien, takes fierce pride in his fellow Lions and friends, readily leaps to the defense of the Inquisition and anyone in it, and almost happily throws himself on the line, body and soul, for any and all of the above, but he has hardly any pride to spare for himself, in truth, or any of the same protectiveness.
At his core, he is—or aspires to be, at least—a protector. The kind who stands in the way of anything that should aim for the people he loves, regardless of how he stacks up to it. some part of him wants more than anything to be a hero, a real one, just once in his life, whether anyone knows about it or not. And if that takes dying in the right way for the right cause—well, he can't say the thought really bothers him much. He's alarmingly unconcerned with his own safety, or even his own life, which makes it perhaps very fortunate for him that he's more defender than aggressor.
And a lot more to make up for.”
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DEX:
INT:
WIS:
CNG:
MAG:
WIL:
CON:
⎧ ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇ ⎭ [8/10]
⎧ ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇ ⎭ [7/10]
⎧ ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇ ⎭ [5/10]
⎧ ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇ ⎭ [6/10]
⎧ ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇ ⎭ [0/10]
⎧ ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇ ⎭ [7/10]
⎧ ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇ ⎭ [9/10]
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Equipment: When given the choice, Corvin prefers to wield heavier two-handed blades like his mentor, though none but the most exotic or unusual weapons are outside his repertoire. Likewise, he can work with most armor configurations, though he tends towards a mix of light plate and ringmail. If he has cause to wield a shield, it's usually a medium kite-type, as Cor relies on deflection and mobility more than outright strength—though he doesn't especially lack for strength either. Given his flexibility, there are no specific blades, shields, armor, or other items he's particularly attached to; he's happy with anything functional. At a distance, he’s a talented amateur but certainly not a sharpshooter; the talent remains largely undeveloped due to his preference for melee. He still does fine with a bow or crossbow in a pinch, though.
Fighting Style/Training: Anyone who has ever seen the Emperor of Orlais on the battlefield can recognize the genealogy of Corvin's combative style. He's no exact replica of Lucien, but the resemblance is strong. As a champion, his focus is on drawing the foes to him, be it with taunts or just being the single most threatening thing on the field, allowing his allies to fade into the background and pick and choose their targets at their leisure for maximum effect. In the meantime, Cor himself must be capable of weathering enemy assault without breaking beneath it, and so his style is by default defensive. The majority of his effort and energy goes to deflecting, blocking, dodging, and turning attacks; he only takes the opportunity to strike if it doesn't risk backfiring.
Or at least that's how it works in theory. In addition to being well-trained and talented, Corvin is yet young, and a bit on the reckless side in the way that confident youth so often is. To his credit, he doesn't usually allow his tendencies to get away from him, but he can, occasionally, be a bit of a show-off, and he's taken punishment for that in the past. Still, he's got a valiant heart, and while his own defense sometimes suffers for his cocksure attitude, he goes well above and beyond in the protection of his allies, even at great personal risk.
The rather violent introduction of lyrium crystals into his body has produced a number of side effects, ranging from a marked increase in physical strength and stamina to a rather impressive resistance to magic, though it should be noted that he is harder to heal or buff because of this as well. Though he's still in the process of working out the ability, he seems to be able to produce blasts of force akin to a templar's smiting ability—but these are both more powerful and much more unpredictable than what most templars can do. As of this point, they're more often accidents than anything he does on purpose.
But I like to think I'm usually the baddest.”
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Social Status/Rank: City elf; mercenary captain.
History: Corvin's origins are just about as humble as they come. He was born in Amaranthine in 9:19 Dragon, to a city elf mother and Dalish father, followed a couple of years later by his younger sister Nera. His father ran off to the Brecilian Forest when Cor was six; ostensibly this was to find and rejoin the Dalish and then send for his family later, but the truth of it is more likely that he just didn't want to deal with life in the city anymore, including the family he'd started there and come to regret. That left Cor's mother Desne to look after both of her children, which was a rather difficult task considering that she spent much of the time unemployed.
Amaranthine in the later years of Arl Howe's reign was hardly the safest of places for the elves, and though kidnappings and disappearances were not quite everyday, they weren't uncommon either. Corvin's entire family was taken at once, the three of them siezed from their beds at night and packed along with a few others onto an already half-full ship headed for Tevinter via the Waking Sea. An arduous period at sea was cut far short of its intended duration when the ship was boarded upon docking near Kirkwall, a party of several people killing the slavers and setting the prisoners free. Most of those prisoners moved into the Kirkwall Alienage, but Cor and his family were part of the overflow—a small number who simply couldn't fit in the available space of the oversaturated slum.
Rather than having to make their homes in a cramped alleyway or attempt the journey back to Ferelden, however, they were offered lodging with one of their rescuers, a man Corvin came to know as Lucien Drakon. An uneducated city elf, he could make no connection between the obviously Orlesian name and one of the oldest dynasties in Thedas, and for a number of years, he simply believed the man to be a particularly odd sort of human mercenary. It was the very same year that the Argent Lions were founded, and Cor was immediately intrigued. He became a fixture at the barracks in those early days, though he was only fifteen when he landed in Kirkwall.
He joined as soon as Lucien let him—and he'd started drilling with the mercenaries long before that. Lucien taught him to read and write as well, skills he'd had only in the most rudimentary of fashions before. The Lions gave him a place to belong and a task to apply himself to, both things he sorely needed. Oddly enough, he found that he had a serious talent for weaponry and fighting, and also that he got along surprisingly well with the older mercs in the company, and by the time he'd officially taken a commission and gone on his first job, it felt like a real home, in a way Amarathine never had. The Lions saw more than a little action in the years of Meredith's reign over Kirkwall, playing a role in stopping the madness that resulted from her overzealous actions. When the group split, Corvin said goodbye to his mother and sister and followed his Commander and friends to Orlais.
In the intermediate years, he was promoted to Lieutenant alongside his friends Estella, Hissrad, and Donnelly, and then in 9:41, the events of the Divine's Conclave made one of those friends a Herald of Andraste. On Lucien's orders, Corvin and several of the other young Lions joined up with the Inquisition on loan. He personally served as an officer for the enlisted, training the patchwork army as well as he could. He fell into a leadership role quite naturally, and the Inquisition's army commander Leon promoted him to Captain of the regulars in short order.
It was on the mission to rout the red templars that Corvin had his closest brush with death to date: in infiltrating a quarry used to mine red lyrium, the Inquisition encountered a trap. A lyrium explosive, designed to collapse part of a cave wall on them. Without much thinking about it, Cor sacrificed himself, jumping on the charge and shielding his comrades with his body. It was partly luck and partly very good, immediate healing that meant he survived the blast; in all honesty he probably should have died. The injury left him with severe scarring and some pieces of lyrium permanently lodged in his body and bloodstream, not entirely unlike the red templars themselves. Fortunately, the lyrium in the charge was uncorrupted. The side effects have been developing over time, but so far, they're contained.
With the success of the Inquisition's immediate aim of destroying Corypheus, Corvin finds himself at the job of helping to tie off loose ends, and also going wherever the Lady and Lord Inquisitors ask him to. Most recently, he and Lia have been sent to Val Royeaux, to investigate a matter of some delicacy brewing in the Alienage there.
"Quote."
They've not yet met.
"Quote."
They've not yet met.
"She's incredible, you know? I'm lucky to call her my friend."
Cor rarely has trouble making friends, and found it especially easy to do among the Lions. Even having said that, though, there are few he's as close to as Lia. They were both particularly young when they joined, and green, and they sort of came up through the ranks together. It didn't hurt that they're both elves, either—some things are just easier to relate to when people share background like that. He deeply admires Lia's strength of spirit and the things he knows she's overcome to reach her position, and they get along well and easily. Of late, he's noticed his feelings shifting a little bit where she's concerned, but he doubts this would be something she'd welcome, and so intends to just wait them out without letting on. Their friendship is deep, warm, and uncomplicated; he doesn't intend to risk it for anything.
think of himself as lucky. But that's what I am.
I'm damn lucky—and it's my responsibility
to do right by the people who aren't.”