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"I am told I am funny, so probably I was recruited to split Darkspawn sides.â
"I am told I am funny, so probably I was recruited to split Darkspawn sides.â
Name: Blathnat. "It means flower," she adds helpfully.
Pronunciation: Blah-nat Ash-ling. Silent "T" for the first, as is for the latter.
Age: 33.
Race: Avvar; half-dwarf, though few would figure the latter (as is the case with most halflings), and she hardly talks about lineage.
Sex: Female, though she wouldn't bet money on anyone being able to tell from a glance... or sniff.
Sexuality: "I don't know this word," though a coy smile is practically bubbled from her lips, for a moment there. Because why would you be asking unless you were flirting with her, I mean honestly.
Height: "Still able to change, and I care not what you have to say on that regarding my age. You civilized folk and your facts." 5'10", and she'd be taller if not for her mother's side of the gene pool. Dammit, dwarf mom. (This was a sarcastic pair of sentences on my part, but she'd be quite sincere in wishing to be taller).
Build: She plucks at her clothing and skin, absentmindedly clicking her tongue. "Not made of brick. Not made of straw. Not made of sticks. My, but aren't I an unusual case." She may not be a behemoth in width, but she is one bulked up woman. Blathnat's sheer muscle erases any trace of feminity. And hey, just because she can't keep her balance swinging a claymore above her head doesn't mean she can't watch your lower intestines spilling over your shoes. She would be able to pass as one of the best of her tribe's men, were she not so narrow.
Class: "Ah. One of your many little mechanics. Names. Labels. Titles. As if I am a book you are debating whether or not to read, hmm? If I must: I'm one of those that shares the name with the cheek coloring Ferelden ladies so love." Rogue.
Specialization: Duelist--something she picked up recently.
Warden? "Yes? What do you need of me?"
Appearance: Absolutely deadpan in expression, often sharpening crooked her nails on her shoulders. Her features are pointed, like a crow, like a fox, like a dagger just shy of shaving your abdomen. She has a scar straight across her right cheekbone, deep and red like a second mouth. Not deep enough to expose bone and have her suspected to be a member of the numerous undead hordes, but certainly no idle scratch from a kitten's claws.
Her skin is dark, dim nutmeg, and her hair darker and dimmer still. It's tied into a scraggly bundle, though wild strands frequently manage to jut over her ears. If she would just adopt a walking stick and hobble around, plus maybe some wrinkles on her bony face, she would look every bit the hag Solvej describes her as.
Demeanor:
Like cold earth, a rock encased in ice and snow. You wouldn't want anyone throwing her at you, but you know she's stable, firm and unyielding. She holds no crisis in identity. She's the concrete floor meeting your back. She's the Vigil that will not fall. She's a girl of the mountains, a woman of the grey.
Blathnat may believe nothing is permanent, but she's certainly far from wishy-washy.
While her dark lips can lift into a sneer at the drop of a coin, there's strangely very little that's hostile about the look. In fact, she normally, entirely lacks hostility. She slouches as she walks, sits in a hunched over crumple, speaks with her palms open to reason. She sways like grass in the wind; runs like a stream through which pebbles are weathered not through any conscious effort of her own, but simply because they had the misfortune to drop into her depths. Not to say that she's not frightening on the occasion that she decides to grant you one of those cold barbarian stares--but unless she is genuinely expecting a fight, she needs spare no such effort.
Blathnat is, more than anything else, patient; so much so that Andraste herself would seem snippy and rebellious in comparison. There are those who would spit fire in the face of pain, roar when crossed. One would be lucky to even receive thoughtful pouts from Blathnat. Any severe instances if straddling her convenience is met with quick, quiet death; anything lower than that is simply hand-waved. Good night Wesley, good work, I'll most likely kill you in the morning. She's neither serious nor playful, wringing the best of both around the ear and yanking them wherever she needs them.
She is a complete set without a heart. Some may call her inhuman for this, until they meet her. She's not heartless, not a monster that's all talons and teeth ignorant of all else, but she finds that a heart is a thoroughly unnecessary accessory for her sleeves. Her clear eyes and her frank honesty are enough to allow her a personable air. What need does she have of rivers streaming from her face, of passioned gasps and screams? Frankly, she finds these activities rather silly (but cute in their way, she supposes), and would sooner be found swimming in armor than giggling like a loonatic deserving of a straitjacket. Hers is a controlled presence, but a fair one. She shares bread without so much as a word, without demanding a thing in return. She claps shoulders (however grimly) with the best of them. Jostling about like a child may not be her cup of tea, but she, mug in hand will watch any gallavanting without judgement or reprimands--only a thin, humoring smile.
That said, this is a woman who harnesses her demeanor to control the literal, physical tide of battle. A mere whistle or unexpected smirk from the her otherwise placid self has garnered impressive reactions from her opponents, more often than not leading to their downfall.
Fears: Werewolves. Blame the stories from her childhood. Unchecked, this has since rather extended to other big and hairy creatures, such as bears. She can still kill them in an encounter, worry you not, but she'll be quite a bit more hurried about it.
While this isn't a fear, per se, she still gets warden nightmares in great vividity, and so does her best to sleep separately from her companions.
Hangups/Quirks:
- That she has a sense of humor at all is surprising to those who would observe her with deaf ears. She can say some fairly ridiculous things as if they were common sense or grave news.
- Blathnat also seems to be lacking in ambition. She has no dreams of the future, only things she happens to be tasked with at the moment.
- She has a fairly literal view of things, which as many rightfully suspect, is on purpose. It's more interesting to dodge a question not with silence, but by spending time analyzing the wording. This has been perceived as frustrating and obnoxious, among other things; so the questions thankfully stop after a time.
- Comments on her intellect are met with a pensive scowl, and she'll make sure your interactions with her are few and far between henceforth. Why? Because she's gotten a lot of shit before about barbarians lacking in the brain cell department (at the lowest point when she was passing through Ostagar--she now hates that place), and Blathnat's not about to participate in anything so petty ever again. Having said that, it's true that she's not stupid, but she can be pretty.... straightforward when thinking requires more involvement or skepticism. Subjects she hasn't a mind for--politics, magic, half the codex entries out there--are just not for her.
- Her favorite animal is the turtle.
- She can hold her drink. Being sandwiched between dwarven and barbarian civilizations tends to do that. Don't push your luck.
- She's not really one to use names; for example, she's been unable to shake the Avvarian penchant of referring to younger folk as "Boy" or "Girl." It's not meant to be insulting, just habit.
Opinions:
The Chantry: "Oppressive." Too many encounters with the overly devout has made her look down her nose at the Andrastians--particularly if they appear incapable of taking care of themselves. How would they even run for their lives in those robes? Maddening to think about. Blathnat may not preach practicality as if it were its own religion, but she likes to think survivability is something everyone can agree to believe in. Don't get her started on spoiled nobles.
Magi: "Controlled by the oppressive." Useful, so long as they're on her side. She views them mainly as tools, hammers for knocking nails. A society of hammers... sounds self-destructive, and she wouldn't like any vacations to any such places.
Templars: "...Controlled by the oppressive." No particular opinion, other than the idle acknowledgement that Solvej is one of them.
Elves: "Frisky." The Dalish ones are very obsessed with history, aren't they? Blathnat doesn't understand this mindset in the least bit. History passes, moreso than everything else, and clinging to its ankles is likely to leave you open to a mortal blow. Right between the shoulder blades.
Dwarves: She smiles. "Drunk." They don't scare her. Due to her lineage and proximity to Orzammar, many of her first friends were dwarves. She regards them fondly. (Her tribesmen are her tribesmen, friends are friends; completely separate category).
Humans: "Lots of those to go around." Would a blight really be able to wipe them out? Though she's seen the horrors of a horde firsthand, she's not so sure. Tenacious are these human bastards. They drop like flies, but they come back with the vengeance of snow roaches.
The Grey Wardens: "Very fond of crawling in tunnels and hallways. Until they aren't, which is when they complain extensively about crawling in tunnels and hallways." She feels like she belongs here, though no one's ever heard her admit it. She certainly acts like a warden, though, with her easygoing acceptance of most she meets. Who knows, they might have the rite of conscription pulled on them tomorrow, and there'd be no point in her getting hissy-pissy over it.
The Mission: "Yet another." She's aware that it might be her last, and she doesn't seem too perturbed by this.
Weapon of Choice: Dual blades, the sorts that sing as well as she does. She favors daggers that are thin enough to slice the very fabric of air.
Armor/Apparel: She dresses herself in furs and lightweight armor, including pauldrons that make her look bigger than she is. Leather wouldn't suffice; her method of fighting is quite a bit more confrontational than those of most rogues.
Mount: "I've always wanted a Bronto. Could we get a Bronto?"
Level: Are we all going to be level 10? Oh, all right, I'll not get left out.
Skills: "I sing and I dance."
Dual Weapons: Backstab, Unforgiving Chain, Explosive Strike, Twin Fangs, Lacerate
Specialist: Speed, Power, Precision, Harmony
Duelist: Throw Gauntlet, Sure Strikes
Place of Birth, Nation of Origin: The Frostback Mountains of Ferelden, which deeply contributes to how damned prepared she is for constant battle and strife. The unforgiving weather, wiley bandits and unfriendly neighbors are among many things that made sure an Avvarian little girl did not stay a little for long. She was either strong, growing as speedily as her hormones would allow; or she was kidnapped, murdered, raped, and lost to the elements. Hopefully in that order.
Social Status: Grey Warden, which nets her some favors here and there; but there are still several who would take one look at Blathnat and declare their disgust. Barbarians in their midsts, egad! Hide your purses, hide your children, hide your wives. The wild whore might slit them all at the least provoation.
Personal History: Somehow it has gotten around that she was married once, and she's yet to deny the rumor. Like a number of wardens, she'll have you think she has no past at all. In fact, she's not terribly inviting about her present either. She wouldn't even give her name if it wouldn't make her seem outright inhospitable. There are more important things to focus on, yes?
... There was once a dwarf in search of a fortune. All right, there were many dwarves of that ilk, but shut up and pay attention. This one was a merchant; lost his stone sense long ago but still insists on keeping a round ear to the dirt. Tintop, we think his name was. He loved the idea of exploring uncharted territories for treasure and one day, bidding adieu to his portly wife, set out to live a dream.
He didn't get very far. A moving tribe found him starving at the base of a tree, and dragged him along as he blabbered about snow lions and ancestors and "sod it all"s. As they established their new settlement, they interrogated the dwarf. Well, they talked to him rather politely, but the dwarf didn't feel terribly at home under their yellow stares. Finally, he established his desire for trade, and they conceded with a unanimous shrug.
The first exchange was a cartload of fine furs in exchange for the dwarf's surface-born daughter. "Come here, Cor," he said, "and say hello to the nice savage." As it turned out, the Avvar chieftain was a curious enough fellow to take a vertically-challenged wife. It was from the girl's womb that Blathnat was born, and in the chieftain's stooped hut that she was raised. She was the dwarf's only child, but she had many half-siblings from other mothers. Avvar men were free with their affections, you see, and the elder ones were expected to father a good third of the barbaric population to "keep the warmth about."
But we're getting sidetracked.
Tintop opened a rusty door for the mountain barbarians, and soon all sorts of commerce was passing through to greet them. They had some very nice furs, after all. Young Blathnat earned much of her vocabulary (especially the naughty ones) from traders like her gandfather, as well as the old coot himself. Her body was meanwhile trained by her tribe and her home; just because her sect of Avvars opened shop didn't mean they altogether stopped having squabbles with their unruly neighbors. Raids were a monthly occurance, to and fro. She earned skills in survival, endurance, and an affinity for locks whenever nearby tribes were ravaged--treasure boxes that weren't smashed to bits in the process were handed off to the children to play with, and Blathnat found tinkering to be more amusing than most.
She became a woman when she hunted her first boar, and sang a hymn to Korth on the same day.
A decade later, she saw her first darkspawn. Hideous thing, fangs like sewing needles. She managed to subdue it with the help of her brothers, but its grotesque face haunted her dreams.
Three days after that, a Warden showed up. Blathnat watched him walk through the giant, golden gates of Orzammar while she was in the market, then was scolded by her grandfather for idling. There would be a proving in his honor, and the winner would... Ah, dwarven affairs, she didn't much like paying attention. It was merely the armor that caught her eye, the cloth that seemed to have been ripped from a speckled night sky. (The Lady would not have liked such blasphemy, she mused to herself in amusement).
There was indeed a holding, and to the victor went the spoils: A dwarf named Hrothgar received the honor of joining the warriors of the grey. A good man, Hrothgar, and eventually a good friend; but were cockiness a sin, hell would explode upon his entry. Apparently, Hrothgar insisted that they needn't something so mundane as a guide down the mountain, and word of darkspawn sightings only fueled his vigor. Poor Warden Commander Malik ended up so often turning his map upside-down and right-side up that he lost count, and never listened to Hrothgar's advice ever again. They encountered a slew of darkspawn in a ravine, and while they would have been able to survive the encounter, the exertion of strength might not have allowed them to survive the mountain. Hearing the angered roar of a dwarf in combat, a band of her tribe set out to investigate, and thereafter, render aid. Blathnat was among them.
"Please," she began, after escorting the pair onto a safer path, "wait... My tribe is moving southward, and I would not like to join them. I would like to hunt the ugly things."
"Darkspawn," Malik corrected with a smile.
"Yes." Blathnat bowed her head, in embarassment or humility no one knew. "But I would not like to die as dwarves do."
It took a moment, but the Hrothgar was the one to understand: "She means the Legion of the Dead. Sod it, duster, you could have offended me with that."
"Ah. While it's true we're no Legion of the Dead, my lady--" he paused for she had arched a brow-- "you may find we're not much better."
That was good enough for her.
Professional History: She's hanging out because she was available. Really.
Well, that's what Blathnat seems to be insisting on saying, as with every other mission in the past. Fact is, she's one tough cookie, and one would be hard-pressed to find anyone more reliable (so long as you have the authority or amicability to command her hand). As a distant child of the Stone, she has a shot of immunity to magic, which is cool for when bastard Sloth demons are trying to imprison you in the fade. She's nearing four years of experience as a Grey Warden, thus knows her way around darkspawn and is privy to conducting joining rituals and other such ~Warden Secrets~.
But what distinguishes her from an average warden? She slayed two ogres in one go. Luckily, one was previously wounded by her fellows. Unluckily, the battle cost the lives of her companions before she could end it. The incident netted her fame, but she's not sure it was worth the cost.
About two years back, a fellow warden took note of her fighting style, noting it to be similar to his own. A duelist, he had introduced himself, and like all duelists, he proceeded to bed the one he declared to be his pupil. Oh, anyway, that aside, he taught her that anger really did her no favors. He spent much of their time together training her emotions, at times purposefully kicking her tolerance in the gut. She would not be who she is today without his guidance, his hand on her prow. Shame he didn't live to see her to her mastery of the art.
Add that to various other nonsense and a clean record of never-failing, and viola: you have yourself one good warden alongside being hardy woman.
(Before becoming a warden, she didn't have a "professional" history, however active she was in that time period.)
Idea for a Personal Sidequest: Oh, this will be a difficult quest to unlock. Perhaps a quest to attain the personal sidequest in the first place, yes? Bwahahaha.
She would, however, seem to have an interest in Orlais. Something to do with that dead lover of hers, no doubt.