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Dekton Hellas

"I follow a Path decorated by blood and battle. My death awaits at the Path's end, as does my salvation."

1034 views · last seen in Thedas
a character in “Dragon Age: The Undoing”, as played by AugustArria

Description

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"The only control we can have is to either accept who we are and follow the Path that will make us whole, or run from ourselves in fear and denial. I accept who I am. That is the only choice worth making."



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Name: Dekton Hellas. More commonly referred to by the name of Suicide, granted to him when he was a teenager as a curse. He's altered the meaning of the name to suit his own purposes. He introduces himself under both names, and allows others to pick which they prefer.

Age: 31
Race: Human
Sex: Male
Sexuality: Heterosexual
Height: 6'6"
Build: Suicide is a mountain of muscle, a body hardened by a life surviving in the wild.
Class: Mage
Specialization: Shapeshifter
Master Class: Pathfinder
Warden? No. It was offered, but Suicide refused.

Appearance: Suicide embodies the wilderness and the savage look of the Chasind in his appearance. His face is rarely clean shaven, though he generally keeps his beard from growing too long, usually maintaining a healthy stubble. His skin is scarred in countless places from battles fought, both against man and against beast. His deep set, dark brown eyes and thick brow often give him a hard, cold, grizzled appearance. His black hair is styled in a hedge-like mohawk that is thicker towards the front, and he is decorated with black tattoos running diagonally across the width of his face.

The Chasind seem to grow their men bigger than other humans, and Suicide is no exception. He towers over most everyone he meets, and he's built like a tank. In addition, his time spent surviving alone in the wild hardened him into a supreme hunter, physically. He can move at remarkable speeds for a man of his size, smoothly navigate just about any kind of natural terrain, and operate with the kind of grace and precision of a skilled predator. His posture is slightly hunchbacked, which means he could actually look taller if he tried, and his footsteps are often more akin to a wolf padding along than a man's walk.

He wears no armor, preferring simple leathers and hides, or furs when in more cold weather. In heat, and often in more temperate climates, he'll simply wear no shirt.



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ImageDemeanor: Quiet, serious, thoughtful, aggressive, violent. Those words sum up Suicide most effectively. In conversation, he tends to be direct if the subject is about a course of action or a non-philosophical topic. When asked about his beliefs, however, he's often willing to speak a great deal, if he's in a good mood, and he values the company of the one inquiring. He has very deep seated beliefs, forged over his violent and unforgiving past. He doesn't try to persuade others to believe as he does, merely that his beliefs be respected. So long as someone does not bar his way along his Path, they can believe whatever they wish.

Suicide doesn't really understand how to create humor. He'll laugh if something seems funny to him, but it's doubtful that any living person has actually heard him tell a joke. He picks his allies carefully; those he does gravitate towards, he does so strongly, believing them to be important points along his Path. He's an excellent listener towards those he respects, and will discuss really anything they wish. He can be awkward at times, as he occasionally won't understand a certain civilized custom, or a topic that is usually avoided. This is enhanced by the fact that he spent so long alone in the Korcari Wilds. Reagardless, Suicide loves to discuss, he loves to listen, and he loves to learn.

Battle is an important part of Suicide's Path. He does not shy away from it in the slightest. He's fought against enemies his entire life, be it man, or nature. He will viciously attack those who threaten him or his allies. He's been exposed to blood and death for so long, that he has come to find a certain enjoyment in bloodshed. He finds it satisfying to transform into a massive bear, to claw open a smaller man, to breathe in the smell of gore and violence. His purpose in battle is to kill and to destroy, and this he does very willingly.

Fears: He fears that he will not find purpose in his existence, that he will lose sight of the Path, and be unable to find it again. He fears a death without meaning, without a life fully led, regardless of how long that life is.

Hangups/Quirks: Suicide struggles with receiving orders that do not seem worthy of his time, especially from those he has not become close with, those who haven't proven themselves to him. He also becomes restless, frustrated, and angry when he feels that progress isn't being made. He hates the idea that any of his time is being wasted doing something pointless. If this feeling accumulates enough, he will feel that he has lost sight of the Path, and if that happens, he's likely to do something extremely rash and headstrong, so that he might find it once more, and be satisfied. He also prefers to sleep as a bear. He finds that people are less willing to wake him when he has massive claws.

Opinions:
The Chantry: They Chant can be spread far and wide, for all he cares. Suicide will never hear it. He follows his own Path, and none will deter him from it.
Magi: He believes those with power should use that power for what they will. He will never understand the mages who willingly allow themselves to be oppressed under the Templars.
Templars: They would see him in chains, cage him like a beast. If they try to stop him, he will use everything in his power to destroy them. Otherwise, live and let live.
Elves: They look different from humans. That is all. Actions define a person, not race.
Dwarves: He's met very few of them in his life. He hasn't had any problems with the ones he's encountered.
Humans: He offers no special treatment towards his own kind. There are noble humans and there are wicked humans. The same goes for the other races.
The Grey Wardens: Suicide respects that they've found a purpose for their lives in hunting the Archdemon, but he feels he cannot share that. He doesn't know what his end will be, but he feels that it doesn't involve sacrificing himself to destroy the creature.
The Mission: He isn't known as Suicide for nothing. The mission suits him, if it's as dangerous as he's led to believe. He believes he has found his Path here. He'll follow it for a while, and see where it goes. Perhaps it will truly be everything he has been seeking.



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Weapon of Choice: He looted a darkspawn staff from the Wounded Coast with a wicked spiked ball on one end and a crude blade on the other. It channels electricity damage. He's also adept with the claws of a bear, or the fangs of a wolf.
Armor/Apparel: Suicide wears no armor other than his leather and fur clothing.
Mount: He has never ridden a horse. If he needs to get somewhere quickly, he flies there as a raven, or runs there as a wolf.

Level: 17
Skills:
Pathfinder: Wolf Pack, Swarm Form, A Day as a Dragon, Drake Form
Shapeshifter: Wolf Form, Bear Form, Raven Form
Elemental: Winter's Grasp (Winter's Blast), Cone of Cold (Deep Freeze)
Primal: Stonefist (Golem's Fist), Petrify (Dessicate), Chain Lightning (Chain Reaction), Tempest



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ImagePlace of Birth, Nation of Origin: The Korcari Wilds
Social Status: Apostate Mage
Personal History: The Chasind wilders have been contained in the Korcari Wilds since the warrior known as Hafter soundly defeated them halfway through the Divine Age. There they stayed, convinced that they were no longer capable of contesting the lowlands. Where they had once been united, an organized force of barbarian warriors, the Chasind fractured after their defeat, splitting into various tribes and wandering clans, warring amongst each other for power, and for survival. They still sought to make war, but with Ostagar holding firmly to the north, the only outlets for their bloodlust of the time was each other.

It was into this fractured and brutal society that Dekton Hellas was born, in 1:64 Divine. He was initially part of a small tribe, no more than two dozen in number. They were wanderers, never staying in one place for too long, for fear that the stronger, more warlike tribes would chance upon them, and either absorb them, or destroy them outright. Dekton became skilled in such areas as hunting, foraging, tracking, and scouting. He also grew quickly, and to a large size, as many of the Chasind wilders did, his body hardened physically by nature. He was extremely comfortable in the wild, learning to navigate difficult and treacherous terrain with ease, and how to live off the land. These early years were largely peaceful for him.

While spending time in the wild as he did, Dekton discovered his abilities as a mage. He found that by studying the animals, he could eventually imitate them, and take on their forms. This only further strengthened his connection to his surroundings, as he could now spend time among the creatures of the wild as one of their kind, as a bear, a wolf, or a raven. His tribe valued his skills, particularly his raven form, and made great use of it to avoid confrontation when they traveled.

When he was fourteen, however, his tribe was ambushed in the night by a warlike band seeking bloodshed and plunder. Dekton fought against them viciously, taking several down with his bare hands, before transforming into his bear form, and mauling a half dozen more before being subdued. He woke as a prisoner of the warband. His tribe had been killed to a man, but Dekton himself was offered a place as a warrior, due to his prowess in battle. He refused initially, overcome with grief, thrashing against his captors and obtaining a knife, which he immediately attempted to take his own life with. He was wrestled down by three men, and prevented from doing so. That night, he had decided to at least avenge his tribe's deaths before taking his own life. He grudgingly accepted their offer, and joined the warband.

ImageThey were a rough group, murderers every one, held together by little other than a mutual desire for bloodshed. They took to nicknaming Dekton as Suicide for his earlier attempt, and the name stuck. He had darkened significantly, rarely speaking with anyone, earning the group's trust by proving himself against those they fought with, recklessly throwing himself into the fray and tearing his opponents apart. They approved of his strength, even though he remained largely separate from the group. He eventually earned enough trust with his fellows for them to permit him to hunt at night. It was the chance he'd been seeking. As a wolf, he disappeared into the woods for an hour or so. When he returned, he tore out the throats of the few sentries the group had on guard, preventing them from raising an alarm. When they discovered the bodies, they set out to hunt him in the woods. One by one, he singled them out, and tore them apart. When few enough remained, he changed to a bear, and mauled them to death, savoring every kill.

He was a broken husk of a man, but he had achieved his revenge. Sitting among the bodies, though, Suicide found that he was unable to end his own life. Instead, he fled into the wild, living as bear, wolf, and raven, for some years. It was in this long period of solitude that he developed his beliefs. A death now would be meaningless. Sure, he could join his dead tribe in whatever afterlife awaited him, but what had he really done? Who had he really known? What purpose had he really fulfilled? Had he even lived at all? He didn't know the answers to any of these questions, but he meant to find out. He developed the idea that there was a Path for him, one that had started with his revenge, and one that ended with his death. He would experience life in its fullest capacity along this Path, even if it led him to his death. No more, no less. It didn't matter when his life ended, so long as he was satisfied with the life he had led. It brought a new meaning to his name, one he could respect.

He flew away from the wilds, eventually encountering the Blight, and those who fought against it, which he observed from afar. Remaining a raven, he followed these Grey Wardens, as they called themselves, for some time. They took notice, and eventually regarded their new avian companion as something of a friend. He eventually revealed himself to their commander, Malik, when he was alone. The Warden-Commander did not seemed surprised that the raven was more than he seemed. Suicide told him some of his past, and of his admiration for the Wardens. When he was offered a place among their ranks, however, he refused the Joining. He felt that his Path did not end with the taint claiming his body and mind, and thus had to refuse. He did accompany the Wardens for a time, however, and valued their company. It wasn't long after that when a mission presented itself, and Suicide seemed a natural choice...

Professional History: Suicide has no ties to any living person, currently, and his acceptance of his eventual death makes him rather fearless in the face of danger. Combine this with his prowess as a Shapeshifter, and his growing knowledge of frost and primal spells, and he was a natural choice for the mission.

Idea for a Personal Sidequest: Not sure at the moment. Perhaps a rumor of another member of his tribe that survived, or a member of the warband that had escaped his wrath. Something he is convinced is part of his Path, and that demands his attention more so than the mission.

So begins...

Dekton Hellas's Story

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Ethne Venscyath Character Portrait: Dekton Hellas Character Portrait: Kerin Valar
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The lone raven perched on the cart watched with slightly narrowed eyes as the slim elven girl made her way to it, and waited. She appeared pitifully small... but Suicide supposed he had little reason to boast at the moment. After all, he was just a bird. The elven girl's legs looked like tree trunks compared to his at the time. But when he chose to reveal his presence to her, he would tower over her by nearly a foot and a half, and he didn't doubt his natural body had twice again her weight.

But as Suicide had learned since leaving the Wilds, size was not always important. These northern folk were, almost without exception, smaller than his people, but in the last few months he had seen valor and prowess among them like he had never witnessed among his own people. These Grey Wardens, as they called themselves, often made up in strength and skill what they lacked in sheer size. They were a fascinating group to Suicide, warriors that had devoted their lives to a company, condemned themselves to death so that others might live a while longer. They were admirable qualities, but Suicide had turned down Malik's offer to join them. The Path demanded that he fight alongside those who were worthy, but Suicide's death would be on his own terms. This taint these warriors took into themselves would eventually destroy them, whether they were ready for it or not. Seeing no guarantee that his Path could be followed to completion by the time the taint took its toll on his body, Suicide had been forced to refuse.

But that hadn't stopped him from joining the Wardens' cause. The darkspawn needed to be destroyed, this much was indisputable, and a small company of skilled individuals could do something to achieve that. It didn't require that he join their ranks, and it gave him an opportunity to fight alongside others of his caliber, against odds that were largely considered insurmountable. It was perfect.

Or it would be perfect, if Suicide could come to value those he fought with. As for this first one, he wasn't sure. He could smell the nervousness about her. He could see it in the way she stood, the way her hands shook ever so slightly. And in her face, which appeared so innocent... childish almost. She was their leader? She did not look a warrior in the slightest. This led Suicide to believe that she was likely hyper-intelligent, perhaps skilled in magical arts, or otherwise more dangerous than she looked. Wisdom was acquired through experience in the Wilds, and Suicide had learned the hard way that many things were far more dangerous than they appeared.

He cocked his head slightly to the side when he heard her reassure herself. The first of their group was arriving. She hid her shaking hands. She was ashamed of her fear? There was little point in trying to hide it... it would be easy to see either way. Suicide couldn't help but wonder why this little one had been chosen to lead them. Perhaps she had hidden skills, and was more dangerous than she appeared, but she wasn't inspiring in the slightest. She appeared as though she would make a far better follower than a leader.

The one who approached, though... Suicide approved of her. She was even shorter than the elf, but not nearly so thin. She had muscle on her, there was power vested in those stocky limbs. And she spoke strongly, immediately calling out the fact that their leader was as thin as a leaf. Twig-bean, she said. It earned a laugh from Suicide, which came out as a single caw from his raven form. And yet she did not disapprove of the twig-bean's presence, stating that it had been her choice to be here. Spoken well, he thought.

Figuring it was high time to reveal himself to his new companions, Suicide cawed loudly to draw their attention to him, hopping off the side of the cart and gently flapping his wings to settle lightly upon the ground. A brilliant flash of light later, and the raven had been replaced by the crouching form of Dekton Hellas, the Chasind shapeshifter. He rose slowly to his full height, towering over both of the women before him, a mountain of muscle beside the twig bean. They would both be able to examine his powerful physique quite well, as he wore no shirt at the moment. The climate here was quite temperate, at least compared to the Wilds. His lower body was covered by simple garments of fur and leather, ending in boots of bear skin and fur that were quite clearly fashioned by hand. He exemplified the savage appearance, actually. Much of his skin was tarnished by scars from countless struggles against the wild. Dark tattoos striped diagonally across his face and eyes, and his hair was fashioned in a short cut mohawk. His posture was poor, slightly hunchbacked, meaning that he could have appeared taller if he'd tried. The only thing that was not distinctly barbarian about him was his complete lack of any weapons. No massive axe or maul was slung over his shoulder, no ludicrously large hammer that only a Chasind could dream of wielding.

He gave a nod of greeting, first to the elven girl, and then to the dwarven one. "I apologize if I've startled either of you," he said, his deep voice steady and level, "I often spend time in the form of a raven. Few are the given the opportunity to have wings, and I don't mean to squander the gifts I receive along my Path. I am called Dekton, formerly of clan Hellas, though in recent years I have been known as Suicide. You may call me what you wish." Suicide turned to speak more directly to the twig bean. "The one called Malik offered me a place in the mission that you are to lead. I accepted. I offer you the strength of the bear, the speed of the wolf, the sight of the raven, the bite of winter, and the grasp of the earth. If you would have me, I am yours to command."

His face showed remarkably little emotion as he spoke, and his entire form was remarkably still, a contrast to the slight trembling of the girl who he had just offered his services to.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Ethne Venscyath Character Portrait: Dekton Hellas Character Portrait: Kerin Valar Character Portrait: Lukas Hoffman
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Lethargic and lumbering was the sight of the man, with a faltering hand using the nearest cobblestone wall for support, in vain. The figure finally lost balance and his body landed rather undignified on his own bottom, a look of stupor and addled thoughts evident upon his face. His bright eyes were glazed and unfocused as their lids inevitably made their way south to curtain his fleeting vision. He’s been fighting it for too long without proper rest, either consciously or unconsciously, and now his body demanded at least a moment to lie still, to catch its breath. In that moment his weakness bared down on him, as he began to surrender without realizing it.

And for an instant everything was gone, he was at peace and his mind dulled ever closer to unconsciousness. At last he gave out, and his eyes closed. In the instant of this his mid was flooded with images of horror and despair. Some from his past and the remembrance of one he had lost to the horrors, with twisted images of a mangled corpse of his dear sister long since taken by the Fade. The other images were of the machinations and deeds of demonic presences, seeking to corrupt and to control in their insatiable appetite for domination.

His eyes split open and a sharp inhalation filled his lungs, he quickly scanned his vicinity and found no trace of what his minds eye had seen. At this point, it was hard to tell whether or not these vision were product of his own mind, or the torturous intents of the Fade dwellers in an effort to erode the mental fortitude of their prey. A quivering hand reached for a pouch and grasped a small vial, Lukas purchased this earlier this day, the merchant promising him that this concoction would keep him alert and awake. It wasn’t long before a violet colored and rather distasteful liquid slid down his throat, and he forced himself onto his feet.

By now he would be late to the gathering, and this mage was never known to be late for appointments. As he neared Lukas could feel the effect of the potion taking effect, and indeed he became more alert, stronger, and a wry yet enthused smile graced his lips in this small victory in his ethereal adversary, for the moment he’d bought more time for himself. He could now see the camp and those gathered around it, his smile now extending ear to ear as he broke into a mad sprint. When he reached them, in a boisterous unapologetic display he leaped into there midst, garnering their attention, whether they wished it or not. He boomed, “Oh yeah! Time to get down to business, am I right?”

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Ethne Venscyath Character Portrait: Dekton Hellas Character Portrait: Solvej Gruenwald Character Portrait: Revaslin "Rev" Fenlen Character Portrait: Kerin Valar Character Portrait: Blathnat Ashling Character Portrait: Lukas Hoffman
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It didn't snow enough in the Free Marches, and she hated its insects. They weren't large enough to pose an actual threat like the beasts from her homeland, oh no. They were small, buzzing and buzzing around excitedly to see revealed flesh tanning under the sun's heat; then perching, suckling, spitting or vomiting or whatever the hell they did to make one itch like a flea-ridden mabari bitch. If she had more free time (and a little more madness), she would have personally undertaken a quest to murder their queen. All their queens. Drive them to extinction, claim their little antennae for the glory of the Mountain Father. It was the mountainfolk way of dealing with nuisances.

Other than that, the journey was relatively painless, and the company she kept was well enough. Solvej was a good girl, but arguably not the best sort to be alone with for hours on end. But then, who was? Their third comrade lingered enough to have his presence felt and share some choice words, but otherwise seemed to make himself scarce in conversation (which she boiled down to either a distaste for human contact, a neurotic need to scout ahead, or frequent chamber pot breaks). And Blathnat herself? Why Blathnat, when she wasn't noiselessly grumbling about bugs and slapping her forearms, was humming in the manner of a bear in a feathered hat stirring a pot of stew. That is, with her roughened throat, chin higher than usual as though sniffing a whiff of something alluring (or trying not to fall asleep at the reins), and pleased just enough. No more than was necessary. It wasn't her idea of making merry, though she'll admit her Avvar tribespeople are known hummers and feet-tappers. She remembered those long nights when they had enough wood to make a fire great enough to lick the Lady's ankles above them; the melodies carried in unison between men tending their weapons and wounded; and the girls quietly whispering so as to not interrupt them, whispering from the brush of betrothals and arrangements, chortling in silence as they pushed, shoved, teased each other. Grandfather once told her he'd heard them even as a boy on flatter lands: barbarian music, the constant hum that was carried by the wind, latching into the very mountain and its stones like a clawed ribbon. It warned strangers and other, less combative tribes to steer clear of their current home, told them of their sheer number--hers was well over a hundred strong. Needless to say, the weaker tribes kept to silence.

But today, she hummed for the sake of one horse. It was a creature that preferred being spoken to and reassured constantly (or else it would stop, stomp a bit, then begin pacing in circles like the baboon it was at heart); Blathnat was not about to tell bedtime stories and let her breath go dry for the sake of the clomping animal, so she hummed, and it took no issue.

She was cautious to dismount, as she was literally on unfamiliar ground upon arrival. The ground was something of a saturated gold, made up of grounded pebbles and flecks of... sand that sunk under thre pressure weight in copious amounts. She'd seen sand before collected in vials and tipping glasses, but never an entire landscape composed of the stuff--nor what it was all collected to border:

The great blue that buffeted shore in heaving waves.

She had to admit she was almost unnerved by the sight, but found her attention drawn by the gathering just before them. Just in time to see a charge and dive in their midsts from an ally, at that. "Take care not to slide off the side of a cliff face, boy," she chided quietly--more as a note to herself (and perhaps the templar) to watch out for that rather than an actual scolding. An impressive range of heights surrounded Lukas, and she wondered if she should have been amused. One dwarf--female, and so not the familiar face she'd been half-heartedly expecting. That Seeker was likely here already, somewhere. Lurking. And then there was...

Ah, the Chasind mage, towering over the lot like a sacred boulder. The barbarian woman cocked her head (which bobbed as the horse took its time settling), and inquired, "Wasn't I there when you showed up muttering your admirations for the Wardens?" She might have spoken for him a little if so--normally she would be aloof towards tribes not her own, even viewing them with the same distaste with which most flatlanders viewed all tribes at times, but after waltzing through Ostagar and being making friends with its inhabitants, she couldn't help but feel a certain kinship for her outertribe family. But perhaps she dreamt it after too many mugs of ale and Malik regaling her with the tale. Like Suicide, she was dressed more lightly--not shirtless, though it was terribly tempting. Blathnat did not forget the last time she stripped off her top in a Grey Warden camp. Apparently exposing one's breasts wasn't something "ladies" did in "civilized" settings; she didn't get the why, but she consented that it tended to make non-tribals uncomfortable.

She dismounted, cupped the beast's cheek for a moment, and moved on. She found her sight drifting slightly downwards. "And you're the one the Commander spoke of, are you, girl?" She said, hand on her hip, fist to her pursed, appraising lips. Then, rather abruptly, Blathnat gave Ethne a few pats on the shoulder, saying little more than "Worry not" before folding her arms and meagerly trying to get a better glimpse at the view.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Ethne Venscyath Character Portrait: Dekton Hellas Character Portrait: Solvej Gruenwald Character Portrait: Revaslin "Rev" Fenlen Character Portrait: Kerin Valar Character Portrait: Blathnat Ashling Character Portrait: Lukas Hoffman Character Portrait: Rhapscallion Linnell
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INK

Solvej had spent most of the return journey in an uncharacteristic silence, for what was there to say? She found herself in the unusual position of being caught between two parts of her life that she had thought to keep separate. Here, she was Solvej the Warden, valued if not entirely-reliable ally and proven time and again to be worthy of her place among the skilled ranks of the Grey.

But now, enter a figure from a past she would rather not remember, an exchange brief and terse and to the point, for truly, he was but peripheral in her torment, and it was better that way. Easier to ignore the fragments of memory, stirring ephemeral on the edges of her mind, like relics of a half-remembered dream from long ago. It was fortunate, that he did not often feature in these memories, that he was, in the grand scheme of things, not at all at issue.

It made it possible to tolerate his presence.

Still, were she not to set off immediately on this little death march of theirs, she would have had a few choice words for Malik about his appreciation for irony. And surely, the man would have heard her, that light smile on his face that meant he was actually considering something with all due gravitas, but knew that, regardless, he was right, and then of course he would have asked her if indeed her practicality had failed her after the intervening years. It had not, of course, and she would have conceded the point, but only after a parting shot about trusting her enough to inform her.

Ah, but if I had informed you, would you have gone? The answer, they both knew, and the bastard (affectionately called, for in truth she was most hostile to the people she actually liked) would have kept on smiling that roguish half-tilt and things would have been no different than when they started. Except, perhaps, that Solvej would have felt better about it. Unfortunately, simply knowing how the conversation would proceed was not enough to produce the attendant effects, and in the end, she was uneasy, in the way that one who does not know if she is guilty is uneasy being watched.

Still, it was easy enough to conceal, and none would know how deep that feeling ran, regardless of their perceptiveness. She had great practice with this, and by the time she approached the group by the wagon, she practically radiated confidence and casual ease, with just a hint of something unnamable with any word other than trouble. Not quite danger, not quite mischief, but something indefinably in-between. It was Solvej’s default affectation, for all of those awkward situations like this one.

She might have remained mounted, but it occurred to her that this was hardly the impression to make upon such a frankly ridiculous collection of people. Most, she knew; one was bloody well missing, and if he didn’t show up soon, she’d have his head herself, the sot. Those she didn’t were easy enough to pick out based on Malik’s information: she was half a mind to whistle and quip at the sheer size of the shapeshifter, but Blathnat was already saying something to him, so she didn’t bother.

The shortest member of their group, Solvej already knew she would like. Unapologetic-looking and heavily-armored, she had a feeling they’d be spending a considerable amount of time together on the front lines of things and possibly drinking like fish afterwards. The bombastic mage, she ignored, though not from disrespect: she’d known his sister, once upon a time, and their circumstances were similar enough that she generally avoided speaking to him. He might not know that this was why, but she didn’t much care about that one way or another.

The Seeker, she assumed was skulking. She didn’t know exactly where, but he was not the type to either wander away from the mission or to make social niceties with people. He’d have to break himself of that at least a little if he wanted to work in a team setting, but she’d leave that for him to figure out.

In the ends, what she did was dismount for a moment and peer at their leader. Though it was not common knowledge, Solvej was aware of why the girl was picked, and though having someone else waltzing around in your dreams was very strange, it had also given her something of an odd regard for the diminutive elf. She looked quite like a youngling still, but in the Fade she was something else entirely.

“You’ll do,” was all she said, with that understated pronouncement, the Black Templar swung once again astride Wagner, himself taller than their leader, and took point at the caravan. There was just that useless fop of a mentee, Rhapscallion, left, and if she knew him (and she did), he’d be along in all due time, frantic apologies and foolish gallantry firmly in tow.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Ethne Venscyath Character Portrait: Dekton Hellas Character Portrait: Solvej Gruenwald Character Portrait: Revaslin "Rev" Fenlen Character Portrait: Kerin Valar Character Portrait: Blathnat Ashling Character Portrait: Lukas Hoffman
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Comfortably nestled between stacks of homemade pillows and itchy blankets, the Rogue was reminiscent of a curled-up mudsplasher snuffling softly, so silently, one would think that he appeared more a corpse than a sleeping man. If it weren't for the thin line of dribble pooling across his curled thumb, pillowing his face like a lover's hand. Breezy, crusty-eyed and completely unhinged from worries. That is, until he'd been assigned the mission alongside his Grey Warden companions and several other excitingly ruffled comrades, brambly convoys – the type of mission that guaranteed death and anguish and the loss of important, imperative limbs. He needed all of his limbs, respectively. It would be his undoing. So, Rhapscallion slept rather peacefully, gripping the folds of his blankets tightly in his fists while further tangling his legs.

It would've been perfect if the lady-barkeeper hadn't bustled in, huffing heatedly about how he hadn't already left this damn establishment already – and there were weary travellers downstairs who needed the room, right this instant, so get the hell out. He didn't rouse, didn't even flutter his eyelashes. She gripped the hem of his blankets and pulled them off in one felled, dramatic sweep. It was ridiculous pretending to sleep, pretending that for a few moments he could forget all about the responsibilities set across his shoulders – and he wasn't the only one, so at least he wasn't going to be alone. Electric shivers landscaped his spine, swiped it's claws across his neck and pebbled his forearms with goosebumps from the warmth that escaped in that simple cape-throwing-blanket-trick. Then, there was Solvej: his Grey Warden mentor who'd most likely roast his behind across the coals for making her wait while he snoozed. It wouldn't be in her exasperated eye rolls, it certainly wouldn't be her nervous finger tap she performed for a few seconds when she animated her thoughts without voicing them – it'd be in the slight twist of her lips as she beckoned you closer, so close, that she could slap you upside the head or grip your earlobe to reprimand you properly.

A lump bobbed disconcertingly at his throat, threatening to choke him. The lady-barkeeper hadn't budged from the foot of the bed, hands placed sternly on her waddling hips as she tapped her foot, impatiently, clearly irritated by his lack of a response. His mind wandered stridently from subject to subject, searching for a way he could tire his head and drag himself from the comforts of the dingy, dusty tavern he'd become so quickly acclimatized to. He wasn't a hero, so why the hell did they even want him on board? Inevitably, the woman tip-tapping her feet exhaled loudly, through flaring nostrils and twisted lips, reminding him that this was the last-straw before something large and heavy rounded across his head. “Woa-woa-woa, fine, Molly. I'm up, I'm up, so stop looking at me like you'll flip the bed.” He crowed solemnly, bobbing his head like a forlorn turkey, as he drug his limbs from the mass of tangled sheets and threw his legs over the bedside like anchors he wished he could keep aboard. There wasn't any avoiding it any longer. Molly's head reared forward intimidatingly, causing him to throw his hands up in defence with a chortled yelp. By Maker's tits, women scared him! She simply smiled and pranced away, immediately gratified with the results. She hadn't even been fazed that he was completely naked. Terrifying women. Terrifyingly busty women.




Oh, for the love of Andraste—” He grunted sourly, gently squeezing his stallions ribs to egg him on. The damnable beast eyed him sideways, as if to say what-the-hell-are-you-gonna-do-about-it, and continued to munch the clovers he'd been so intent on gorging himself on. “You know, if you don't keep going, she's going to kill me and you, she'll roast you. Yum, yum, roasted horse!” He proclaimed, throwing up his hands. The Grey Warden's broad shoulders twitched, stress lines forming in his back when Conquest merely snorted, clearly unimpressed by his idle threats. His shoulders arched, then slumped down in defeat. He dreamed of a moon and of stars, of a lake, and a garden. He dreamed of lilac bushes, and of roses. He dreamed of lavender. He did not, however, dream of seating a stubborn horse who refused to listen to anything he said. His body was decorated with scars, the remnants of dozens of quests and hundreds of battles and still, still, he couldn't even manage to appear anywhere on time or bully his faithful steed into bringing him anywhere he needed to be.

Sheer miracle would have it that Conquest smelled something much more delicious than the clovers and broke into a steadfast gallop in the right direction, leaving Rhapscallion clinging to the saddles' curved horn like a flapping piece of seaweed gripping a rock's face. His eyebrows creased when he first sighted the rolling wagon – they wouldn't be impressed. Blathnat would offer him sympathetic winks, hardly masking her amusement. He didn't even want to think about what Solvej would say to him. It wouldn't be pleasant. It wouldn't be full of hair-mussing delight or gentle arm punches. What would he say? What could he possibly come up with for an excuse? They both knew he was a terrible liar. He couldn't keep a straight face, damaging as it was to his roguish temperament – couldn't even fib if his life depended on it. He was naive. In many ways, he was still the innocent, unchanged, young lad Solvej had met years ago. The same mentee who'd fumbled through his joining ceremony like a coltish horse who'd just discovered how to walk properly, without stumbling over his own legs and announcing constantly that he was a Grey Warden: thus, a magnificent hero and saver of maidens.

His heart hammered like something completely apart from him. Useless as a soggy piece of parchment paper, right now. If he just quietly clopped behind the churning wheels of the waggon, perhaps he wouldn't be noticed by anyone. Only Ethne would forgive him for his untimely absence. He hadn't forgotten that he'd been the one chosen to guide her through Tevinter, ever since their fateful meeting on the battlefield – as unlikely and unsettling the idea was for Commander Malik to digest and accept. He was looking forward to seeing her again, and hopefully, would go about enlisting her aid when shielding himself from Solvej's disappointment. Refusing to whistle foolishly as he neared the straggling line of the caravan, Rhapscallion dipped his head low and leaned forward in his saddle, trying desperately to make himself appear smaller: not be seen, not be seen. Though, he watched them, owlishly, through his eyelashes. Mismatched and strikingly laughable. The sight made him smile: Elves, humans, dwarves, alike.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Ethne Venscyath Character Portrait: Dekton Hellas Character Portrait: Solvej Gruenwald Character Portrait: Revaslin "Rev" Fenlen Character Portrait: Kerin Valar Character Portrait: Blathnat Ashling Character Portrait: Lukas Hoffman Character Portrait: Rhapscallion Linnell
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Flashes of colors and sounds surged through Revaslin’s perception as he glided through the city, unseen, and unheard. He did not need the night, not now, though it was thrust to him. Today he had not felt the effects of the fade, even in the least, and consequently, his strength in silence was such that he sifted through the crowd unnoticed, though in their midst. From alley to street to roof he slid, unwaning in his speed. As he looked back to the forest from which he left his companions, the two Wardens, he thought of the long way he had traveled in his life, and how it was all converging on this one last mission. If he somehow came out of this alive, the chains that the Chantry had bound him in wound dissolve, as though made of sand. Perhaps he’d even return to his family, if he still had a family.

The solitary state of the city, firmly unchanging in the constant movements of its denizens, even at this late hour, made it rather easy for the Seeker to place his body in automatic movement, without the need of his conscious effort. His thoughts wandered in the deepness of the path he took to get to this point. He may not come back from this mission, afterall. It was worth reflecting upon.

.



You killed another templar!

My lady, he was not undeserving of it.

That doesn’t make a difference! You’ve been accepted as a templar less than a fortnight, and you’ve already killed a fellow Templar! I… I don’t even know what to say…

Your holiness, he was harboring bloodmages by taking bribes to look away. When I confronted him about it, he tried to shun me. Needless to say, he failed.

That is a bold accusation! The Knight-Commander will have your head for this deal!

I would not come here without proof, holiness, here is Sir Jorvik’s personal ledger, which I had taken from his body-

Looting off a body!

-that contains transactions of his dealings with these maleficarum. I also have two of these mages in custody, willing to testify. The rest were not as willing to cooperate.

My word, Lenny, I… I’ll look into this at once… Ah… Good job. Next time, though, make sure to go through the order first.

I crave your pardon and acceptance, milady, and I will do my best to follow these directions.






As his thoughts wove around his mind, and threatened to overtake his very being, his eyes drifted on their way to a Tevinter girl. The act of noticing her broke his chain of thought completely, and reminded him that he had other things to do than reminisce. This was the girl, the “Dreamer”, he was informed about, the girl that was to be their leader. She looked rather frail, almost glass like, but she moved on with rather ease. He would have laughed at the staff at her back, and how someone so small and child-looking could wield a weapon, especially a staff such as that one. He did not, however. He sensed her magical ability, and almost shrunk back at what he had discovered.

The Dreamer is a Dreamer? Certainly the Wardens are subtle in their naming conventions. Nevertheless, it is to be expected. I will have to be careful with this girl.

He followed her on the way to the rendezvous, observing her. He was like a shadow, always there, but always silent, disappearing and blending with the other shadows. He was now running on top of the various roofs that the city of Kirkwall had to offer. The sky was black, as befitted his temper, and allowed him to be more liberal with his steps.

His mind almost slid back to thoughts of the past, when suddenly he heard the howl of a wolf behind him. As he turned around he saw large yellow globes of eyes staring at him, but as his eyes focused on the apparition, it disappeared, with not even the smallest semblance of it left to vouch for its existence.

The vision sent shivers down Rev’s spine, and almost lost the girl. She was in no hurry, though, and he easily caught up to her.

These visions will be the end of me.





Eventually they finally reached the cart that was assigned as the rendezvous. Rev stood atop a roof and peered down below. There he saw the Dreamer looking about, almost nervously, waiting for any signs of new arrivals.

A raven sitting on the cart almost escaped Rev’s notice, but for its solemn countenance. There was something odd about that bird that warranted further investigation. It could have been a spy. Upon a more detailed study of this creature, he realized that it was a mage.

If that girl weren’t there, he would have known immediately. There was simply too much fade around her to make clear the more insignificant (by comparison) magic of a small bird. If this mage was truly one of the people invested in this mission, why was it that he had not made an appearance yet?

Rev quickly trained a bolt at the bird’s head. He stuck out his tongue to get a feel for the wind and readjusted his aim accordingly. If that mage tried anything unusual, or left the scene without introduction, he would die.

In almost no time at all, however, a dwarf in full armor made his appearance and addressed the leader. When the new arrival took off his helmet, or rather, her helmet, Revaslin’s eye locked on to the tattoo on her cheek.

A casteless. Is that the reason she’s going on a suicide-mission?

As he looked back at the raven, he saw it was no longer a bird. With a flash of light it was now a muscular man, who was rather barbaric in appearance. A wilder, no doubt, and an apostate to boot. Already there were two mages in the group, and as if that weren’t enough, another one came running like a buffoon. There were going to be a lot of encounters with the fade, no doubt, especially given the somniari.

Rev lowered the weapon tied to his left arm, and set the safety back on. No use in shooting someone by accident; though if a mage left the group by such a turnout, Fenlen certainly wouldn’t complain.

The two wardens he was already acquainted with soon came, the dark one looking around, to spot our Seeker most likely. Solvej followed, and Rev could see dark clouds of thought on her brow, though as she approached, that cloud seemed to dissipate. Well, certainly a question had been answered there, and the Seeker understood that she was not cold-hearted after all.

The last straggler came, looking more awkward than any others, especially on the horse he was on. At last, the group was assembled, and having made his judgments, it was time the Seeker made his appearance.

He slid from the roof onto the floor, and disappeared into the shadows. It was rather easy to wind his way about the streets, as there were many stalls and alleys that were unpopulated during the night. He reappeared behind the newest arrival, and gave a grunt of greetings.

Looking to the sky, he noticed that their time of departure was long passed.

“We’ve lost enough time,” he noted, “It is best we start moving.”

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Ethne Venscyath Character Portrait: Dekton Hellas Character Portrait: Solvej Gruenwald Character Portrait: Revaslin "Rev" Fenlen Character Portrait: Kerin Valar Character Portrait: Blathnat Ashling Character Portrait: Lukas Hoffman Character Portrait: Rhapscallion Linnell
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INK

Ethne did not have to wait long to discover the source of the rustling. As she watched, tension writ into the lines of her posture, someone approached, mounted on a pony. The beast was a hardy thing, compact and dense of musculature. The rider, she noted, was no different, encased head-to-toe in formidable armor, dwarven make, judging by the simple, sturdy lines of it. Well, that and the fact that it was hard to imagine a dwarf wearing armor made by anyone else.

The warrior removed their helmet, and Ethne noted with some surprise the features of a stalwart-looking female with a shock of white hair and a facial tattoo. Those had some significance, but she couldn’t remember what it was. The elf was subjected to the impression of being scrutinized, and she stood stock-still, clasping her hands gently at her waist. Her eyes were fixed resolutely on the middle distance, at least until the woman spoke, but then looked down at her in surprise. "Captain? No, no, you must have me mistaken for someone else. I am to lead, but only in the most literal sense,” she explained, but the rest of it withered in her throat with the dwarf’s blunt proclamations.

"I will-” Ethne was cut off by the sharp call of the raven she’d noted earlier, and she must have jumped about two feet in the air when its form shifted into that of an enormous man. The unexpected action had shocked her pulse into the frenetic beating of a jackrabbit’s feet on the ground as it ran from a swooping hawk, and she could not deny that the metaphor was appropriate.

She certainly did not expect the first words from his mouth to be an apology, and her wide-eyed shock transitioned seamlessly into a warm smile, and though she swallowed thickly, it was genuine as it could be. "Any of those would be quite the offering on its own, and all of them deserve more thanks than I can give,” she replied amicably, shifting into the more formal court-speak that she was used to. The phrasing did not make the sentiment a lie, after all, and it was simply her natural diction.

The Tevinter woman took an abrupt step backwards when another man broke into the clearing, this one more normally-sized for a human and also practically overflowing with energy. She felt his connection to the Fade, and knew that he, like the shapeshifter, was a mage. Her mouth opened, but she realized she had no reply, and closed it again with a clicking of her teeth, blinking rapidly. “Um…”

But the tide of people was coming thick and fast now, and she noted the approach of the Wardens with slightly-awestruck eyes. The one, she did not know very well, beyond that her name was Blathnat and that Malik had humor in his eyes when he spoke of her. Ethne didn’t really know what to make of the obliging pat and murmured reassurance, and it wouldn’t have mattered much, anyway, she was sure.

Solvej was a figure of no mean intimidation herself, encased in all that black armor and lugging around a spear. It wasn’t for this reason that Ethne respected her though; she’d walked in the woman’s dreams, and seen therein more evidence of strength than she’d thought possible. To endure what she had… well, it put things in perspective anyway.

There were two others yet due, and no sooner had she thought as much than she noticed Rhapscallion at the edge of the gathering, and grinned at him with enough brightness to light a dingy cave. "Scally!” she greeted her former guardian with a mirth-infused nickname before remembering her decorum and refraining from skipping over to him with all the childish delight of someone who has just seen an old friend for the first time in too long.

Another appeared from her friend’s shadow, murmuring something about delay, and she nodded resolutely, trying not to squint to get a closer look at his valaslin. She’d always found the Dalish so… puzzling, but now was hardly the time for that.

Clearing her throat, she did her best to gain everyone’s attention, then realized that even half this many pairs of eyes on her was far more than she was used to or comfortable with and colored slightly, a pale pink stripe dusting her cheekbones and nose. "I imagine most of you have been briefed to an extent, so I’ll keep this short. We are to ride west for a day, whereupon we will rendezvous with a ship bound for Val Royeaux. Orlais is our first destination, and the first Darkspawn general is there. If you’d rather not ride, feel free to use the cart. Oh, and for anyone who does not know but cares to, my name is Ethne Venscyath. I’m to find the Darkspawn in question, and lead you to them, but please… if you feel at any time that there is something I should know or consider with regards to anything else, you will find me a willing listener.” So saying, she flashed her teeth in a quick smile at the lot of them and mounted her horse, settling into the saddle and guiding him to the forefront of the group. Producing Malik’s map of Thedas from one of her saddlebags, she double-checked the place he’d marked and pointed her steed’s nose due west.


The group had been on the road half a day, the journey punctuated by talking here and there, and Ethne could also have sworn that someone laughed at one point, though she couldn’t say who, when they ran upon the first hint of trouble.

A fresh corpse lay on the ground, the sand stained red by the blood that had seeped steadily from an arterial wound in his throat. His clothing indicated him to be a member of the upper class, though a few of his garments were threadbare in places. Ethne immediately hopped off her horse and dashed forward, checking the man for any signs of life. Her eyes darted to the horizon, squinting to see if anything unusual was visible. The body was still warm, which at this time of year could only mean that he was freshly dead.

Biting her lip, she examined the man for anything more unusual, and then noticed that one of his hands was still formed into a fist. What healers called rigor mortis had not yet set in, and so it was not difficult to pry his fingers gently apart, and she was rewarded in a small manner when a piece of parchment slipped from his grip.

Smoothing it out carefully on her leg, Ethne read it over and frowned.
My dearest brother Jorundr,

I know that the magistrate has been most unhelpful with the recovery of your stolen property, but I must urge you not to take matters into your own hands. There is a war on, after all, and though I do not know the extent of what was stolen, surely a few dozen sovereigns and some equipment you can’t even use is not worth dying over. You are a scholar, not a warrior, and you have no idea what those highwaymen will do to you. Please, I beg of you, just come home!
-Astrid

Standing quickly, she turned to the others, the half-formed warning on her lips morphing into a strangled gasp when an arrow struck her shoulder from behind, pitching her forward.

Several bandits emerged from cover, among them the archer who’d shot first, wearing a triumphant grin. He and four of his fellows were accompanied by three massive warriors, and a good half-dozen or so dual-wielding rogues, four of whom immediately disappeared under the cover of stealth. Perhaps most worrying, though, were the two apostates bringing up the rear. One had already sliced into his own hand, and the other was readying an area-of-effect spell that rained fireballs down on the group, forcing them to scatter if they wished to live.

Rolling onto her side, Ethne retaliated with a Chain Lightning spell, aiming for the archers, who were clustered nicely. She was exposed out here in the open, though, and they’d be upon her in seconds without some swift assistance.

The Mission Briefings have been updated.

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Character Portrait: Ethne Venscyath Character Portrait: Dekton Hellas
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INK

Suicide cursed himself as he plummeted from the skies, tucking his wings in for better speed. He had been trying to keep a lookout for the group as they traveled, watching from above in his raven form. The purpose was twofold: he did indeed want to try and give the group warning should there be a force of enemies ahead, or anything else noteworthy... but he was also still somewhat uncomfortable traveling in a group. Even when he had traveled with the Wardens after leaving the Wilds he had mostly kept his distance, observing them from the trees as a raven.

The Avvar Warden had indeed been there when he'd finally revealed himself to Warden Commander Malik, and he had nodded when she inquired about it the previous night, but he felt no kinship towards her because of their similar homelands. After all, he had regarded many of his own Chasind Wilders as nothing but enemies, due to their choices. Her being a Warden earned some amount of his respect, but beyond that, she would have to prove herself just as the others.

And it seemed now was a good time for everyone to start, as a battle had come upon them. The Dreamer (though he did not yet know why she was called that) had gone out ahead of the group to examine a fallen man in the road. Even from his current height Suicide could see the stains around the body. No healer would be able to fix that.

When he noticed movement in the nearby cover, Suicide had cawed in warning, but of course it was too late by then. He had been too high up to see the trap in time, though if he had flown any lower he wouldn't have had the line of sight to see the distance he desired. As he swooped down he saw Ethne wounded by an arrow to the back of her shoulder. More than a dozen men emerged for the fight, by Suicide's hasty count. His initial concern was defending his leader, and preventing the highwaymen further harming the girl who was currently giving him what small measure of purpose he possessed.

He fanned out his wings and pulled up just before reaching the ground, bursting back into his human form just as he reached Ethne's position. She had fired off a lightning spell at the archers, but others were closing in on them fast. Suicide skidded to a halt, placing the mountain that was his body between Ethne and the others. Suicide roared at one of the dual wielding rogues who was charging towards him, unleashing a cone of ice upon him. He froze where he stood, one of his weapons held above his head and prepared to strike. A strong blow would shatter him utterly.

Suicide had no time to deal with him further, however, as one of the warriors was making a beeline for him, a massive battleaxe in his hands. He swung a heavy strike downwards at the shapeshifter. Suicide caught the handle of the axe, stopping the blade mere inches from his skull, but the warrior's brute force drove him backwards quickly. His heel caught on the grounded form of Ethne behind him, and the two large men went crashing down around the small girl in a heap of iron, flesh, and unbridled rage. Suicide was unaware if either of them had actually landed on top of Ethne, being slightly lost in bloodlust as he was.

Suicide and the warrior thrashed about in the dirt for a moment, each trying to get the upper hand with murderous intent. The shapeshifter eventually found an opening, and smashed into the warrior's jaw with a fist of stone, the physical force of which rivaled a golem's punch. With the warrior stunned as he was, Suicide took the opportunity to shift into his bear form. He growled angrily (and perhaps hungrily) before closing his jaws around the warriors head, his teeth punching through flesh and bone alike. He was still unsure of where Ethne was in this whole mess, but he didn't spare much thought for that at the moment. Placing one paw against the warrior's chest, Suicide ripped back violently, tearing the head from the body, spotting his light brown fur with dark blood.

He spit the head aside, before turning and bellowing at the other highwaymen, his teeth dripping blood. This mission had started off better than he had anticipated.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Ethne Venscyath Character Portrait: Dekton Hellas Character Portrait: Solvej Gruenwald Character Portrait: Revaslin "Rev" Fenlen Character Portrait: Kerin Valar Character Portrait: Rhapscallion Linnell
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INK

Kerin guided the horses of the cart with a sturdy hand, though the horses hardly needed guidance. They were more than happy to follow the trail led by the rest of her party. Riding shotgun beside her was her helmet and axe-- in quick reach if things turned sour. Her pony trotted along side the cart as well, tied up. She had offered to drive the cart since none of the others seemed to be interested. Well, she didn't so much as offer as she told. "I'll drive the cart," she had said, "I'm not going to spend the entire trip dodging the long legs of your horses," indicating their height differences. No, she was much more comfortable on the cart where she could directly look at her companions without looking up.

The trip thus had been easy going. Except for the apprehension she felt about crossing the water. "Another sodding boat?!" She had asked, irritated. She hated the water of the seas, and the rocking it did to these boats. She already saw herself hugging on to the mast with a bucket beside her. It was not a pleasant thought. As she pondered the grim idea of the sea, their caravan came to a stop as Ethne bounded from her horse. Kerin stood, grabbing her helmet and axe as she rose, and looked to find the source of this interruption.

Even from her distance, she saw the poor smear on the road. Poor fellow, probably never even stood a chance, though it was his fault for wandering these roads alone. She watched in grim curiosity as Ethne searched the poor sod's body. She seemed to have found a note and had just turned to them when the arrow bit into her shoulder. Kerin slammed her helmet on her head and yelled an admonishment at the elf as she hopped from the cart. "Dammit twig-bean! You should have had one of us up there with you!" She yelled, meaning either herself or Solvej. Already, the fires of the berserker were being stoked.

However, Kerin wasn't the first into the fray. That honor belonged to the man called Suicide. She had arrived just as the large man froze someone solid. Taking the gift as it came, she scythed past the frozen statue with her axe outstretched, shattering the man into pieces. Once the deed was done, she swung her axe around to the front, giving an intimidating show. "Step up and face death!" Kerin bellowed at the bandits, and followed it with a snarl. With that the berserker fires within her raged.

After giving Rhapscallion the scolding his tardiness warranted, smacking his shoulder with her mail-gloved hand and shaking her head, Solvej had sped Wagner up until she was near the front of the line, muttering things under her breath in Ander that sounded vaguely like admonishments. At least they were off at last, there was somehing to be said for that.

She didn't share the dwarf's dislike for boats, but the short woman's complaint did cause her to exhale a short bark of laughter. "I think you'd best get used to boats, my friend. I doubt the archdemon was so kind as to plant all his most important flunkies in Orlais. I wouldn't; chewing on bloody decadent Orleians would make them fat and lazy." Her lips pulled back from her teeth in an expression between a grimace and a fox's own grin. If there was a culture with which Anders did not mix well, it was certainly the Orlesian one, even counting Tevinter. She knew better than to class them all as fops, of course, but it tended to be the default opinion until they poved otherwise. She'd always wanted to fight a Chevalier, though.

After about half a day, Solvej was looking with bored eyes at the landscape, still alert as possible, when their little leader's shoulders tensed and she became very fixated on something ahead of them. The group crested a hill, and Ethne dismounted, running forward to a body that was clearly already dead. Solvej narrowed her eyes at the horizon, but still nothing was visible. She filed her observations away, noting that the elf-girl was most likely a healer of some kind, if her first instinct was the suicidally-stupid one to-

"Bandits!" Solvej shouted, but she was nowhere near close enough to stop the arrow she saw from puncturing Ethne's shoulder, knocking the frail thing to the sand. The big mage and the dwarf were the first into the fray, and she was not long after them, jumping from Wagner and drawing up alongside the stalwart berserker. In all likelihood, they'd make the best front line, and with this in mind, Solvej twirled her spear, brandishing it at the remaining warrior, a reaver by the looks of the nasty things he was doing with blood. Her first blow met his shield, the force of the impact resounding up Solvej's arms. His sword came around to her side, scoring a narrow wound in her abdomen, but she turned to divert the worst of the blow, using her momentum to whip her spear around and deliver a devastating cleave to his weapon-side arm, the pointed end of her polearm finding a chink in his armor and biting deep.

The man staggered backwards, dazed, but retained the presence of mind to cover himself with his shield. Solvej, however, just grinned, a feral light flashing in her eyes. He was presenting his back to Kerin quite nicely. "Hey short, light, and angry: I got you a present!" She called irreverently, laughter infusing her tone. Ah, but there was nothing like a good knock-down, drag out!

Kerin snarled in response, but understood her Warden companion. She wound up her axe and swung it in a downstroke. The upstroke brought the axe painfully into the crook of the bandit's groin, lifting him up off of the ground and sending him flying. The Stone would feast on blood today! Kerin then turned around to intercept another bandit, this one brandishing a pair of blades and thought he'd sneak up on her while she was occupied.. Kerin cursed her luck at having to fight such a cowardly slip-fish. Her axe granted her a reach the bandit's steak knives couldn't hope for, and she caught the torso of the man in the crook of her axe head.

She yanked hard, pulling the light man in and then swung, throwing the bandit into Solvej's path, "Your turn Warden! And I ain't light!" She called. She turned to face the rest of the bandits and let out another taunting bellow, "Who's next!" readying her axe. She also made conscious decision to step backwards towards Solvej. There were rogues about, and Kerin was not about to be done in by an errant stab to the back. "Dammit! Someone handle those bloody mages!" She called.

When the dwarf hooked her axe around the next man's torso and heaved, the unfortunate rogue tumbled to the ground, dancing to his feet immediately in that lightfooted way they tended to have. Glancing around sharply, he shook off his dizziness and tried to get his bearings.

The first thing his eyes locked onto was the savagely-grinning face of Solvej. The Black Templar seemed to have earned her name- for her brutality, while nowhere near as overt and rage-based as Kerin's, nor as bear-shaped as Suicide's, was a cold, hard thing in the pit of her stomach, and she saw precious little need to check it. If they wished to attack without question, without mercy, than she would indulge them in their base need to die. The dagger-wielding fellow, close enough that she could smell garlic and liquor on his foul breath, staggered backwards with a small yelp, disorientation yielding to the panicked realization that the business end of a spear was inches from his gut.

He didn't make it very far before Solvej took a long stride forwards, fulfilling the sharp promise with a deft shove and a painful twist. There was a hint of mercy left in her yet, it seemed, for she quickly removed the weapon, plunging it up from under his chin and sparing him the indubitable agony of a slow death by exsanguination.

Just in time, too, for the mage's spell came to fruition just then, and fire rained down on their location. It was no good to stand and wait to get hit, and perhaps it was time she put her abilities to good use. Inhaling deeply, Solvej charged. With both warriors down and the majority of the melee fighters engaged or hidden, it wasn't terribly difficult to reach the back ranks of the bandits, and she supposed that the technique her mentos had called turning the blade worked just as well on arrows, for most of the ones aimed for her glanced off her armor. One stuck in her belly, having found a weak link in her chain, but she ignored it and summoned forth the holy smite, planting herself to the ground. It was something that would affect a relatively-narrow area, which as why she had to be close enough to the mages to hit them. Neither fell, but both staggered backwards, casting temporarily interrupted.

"Oi Seeker! This is what you're good for, isn't it?" She was pretty sure Revaslin was around somewhere, at any rate.

The rain of fire did nothing to sooth Kerin's anger. She looked up with irritation and roared in the face of the fire, as if daring it to try and burn her. With the leave of her Warden companion, Kerin felt it was best to vacate the area as well, else the dare be fulfilled. Kerin streaked forward out of the area of effect of the fiery rain and charged into the next fray with wild abandon. There were many more corpses that did not know yet they were dead. She let howl one last taunt before diving in, axe blazing. "Know your fate at the hands of the Fatebreaker!"

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Ethne Venscyath Character Portrait: Dekton Hellas Character Portrait: Solvej Gruenwald Character Portrait: Revaslin "Rev" Fenlen Character Portrait: Kerin Valar
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Yes, the Seeker was around indeed. He had been on the scene even before Ethne took a glance at the corpse. He was scouting ahead, as befit his nature. As soon as the group had departed he had slipped back into the shadows, making a quick mention of it to the general area of the party. If anybody had listened, they would know. He doubted the fact, though, as he was usually ignored. His opinions didn’t matter; after all, Revaslin was an elf, a mere subservient creature only allowed his position for the divine’s amusement.

He found comfort apart from the group, in the songs of the birds and the jitters of the night-bugs that roamed the area. He heard the notes sung from that orchestra of the land, crickets, cicadas, all kinds of little critters, and he felt bound to their song. With every beat he took another silent step, adding to the rhythm of the sound.

His separation from the group had more purpose than simply leaving society once more and partaking in the sylvan symphony. If the Seeker was to be useful, he’d need to be away from that Dreamer. Sensing magic would be doubly as difficult when trying to differentiate it from her stench. The Fade stuck too close to her, clinging like wet fabric. And besides, he wasn’t on this mission to exchange pleasantries.

The sun rose from the east once more, and the party moved on. Fenlen looked on from the rocky outcrop on which he was situated, and as the sun illuminated his figure, he closed his eyes and let the rays graze his face. If anyone were able to see past his concealed form the Seeker would have almost seemed a guardian angel, were it not for his black visage. When he opened his eyes, the black-within-black orbs gave away a red tint. He felt a soft breeze from the ocean side, and his cloak rustled in term. It was hard to imagine that such a serene scene would be just a prelude to a bloody and very likely fatal adventure.




Rev continued on his way, glancing back at the party he was supposed to be travelling with every now and then. When the sun was soon at its zenith at the sky, he reached a flat piece of land, flanked by hills on all sides. The Seeker’s attention had been brought there by the stench of magic, and indeed, a large group of bandits were leaving the scene into the hills above. They left behind a man, who had fallen and perished. No doubt he was their victim. He smelled two distinct connections to the fade, both of which were fastly evaporating.

There were only about a dozen and a half of them, nothing to worry about for our eight young and intrepid warriors. Rev quickly noted the different positions that each of the bandits took, and what their role was in the party. It did not take much reasoning skill to assume that the victim was ambushed from those very hills that the bandits now hid from. It also stood to reason that the party was about to be ambushed as well. Looking back towards the path, he estimated that he was about ten minutes’ way ahead of the group, and now would be a great time to prepare for the battle. Though he could guess at the tactics the highwaymen employed from the position he left in, his group was a different matter. Rev did not know how they would work together, and it was vital to the mission that he, and indeed everyone, knew how to hand such a situation. That is, such a test of skills would be great for revealing each others' skills. It would be prudent, therefore, to let the group get ambushed; they couldn’t get too hurt, after all.

Fenlen prepared a few bombs from the ingredients in his belt, and fitted such an explosive to the second bolt loaded in the concealed mechanical bow on his left arm. He coated the various blades in his arsenal with a poison made of deathroot that he learned from Antivan assassins. Later chronicles would call this poison “Concentrated Crow Poison”, for the assassin’s guild of the same name.

Lastly, he whistled softly to the horizon, and a bird came swooping down. “Ah, Da’mi, you still remember to follow me, even in your old age.” A rare laugh escaped our Seeker’s lips as he extended his arm to the bird. It landed complacently, perched on the man’s forearm. It was a black hawk, with red tipped wings. Rev scratched the bird softly, and it began to coo gently. “A battle will begin shortly, I’ll need you to try and help in any way you can, alright? Don’t be too reckless, I don’t want to have to patch you up again like last time.” The hawk cawed in reply, and stuck out its left talon.

Revaslin tied a few of his acid flasks to the bird, and saw it take off and circle his head. “Don’t do anything,” he warned, and pointing to the bandits, he continued, “until I fire my first arrow. Then we will have set up an ambuscade for those who lie in wait, there.” The hawk cried once more, though this time in a higher pitch. Then the hawk took off, and taking the habit of its master, it went out of sight.




The sands of time did not stop trickling down with the departure of our newly acquainted hawk, Da’mi, however. Eventually the cart approached the body, and stopped to a halt. Their leader bent down to examine the body, rather recklessly, in Rev’s eyes. No one bothered to examine for signs of an ambush, besides the barbaric mage who went by the surname “Hellas”, but even he was too entranced in the forest, that he did not see the individual trees. So when the ambush finally erupted, needless to say, it was the side of the Seeker that took the first hit.

Ethne was hit in the shoulder with an arrow, and quickly retaliated with a lightning attack. Hellas saw the attack and dove into a fast reply. He froze an incoming attacker after turning back into the Chasind he was, and began grappling with another. Meanwhile, the casteless and the black templar he was already acquainted with joined the fray and began to work together in a dance of blades.

A powerful stench pulled his attention. Blood magic. One of the mages from the attackers was preparing a dark spell, and the other, judging from the light and smell of that particular spell, seemed to be a fire-rain spell. He began to train an arrow on the bloodmage, but saw a group of three concealed rogues surrounding the dwarf and the templar, and saw that they would be ready for a perfect backstab.

A Thwack! and a Thwick! later, and one of the rogues fell to the ground, a bolt lodged in his forehead. The rest dispersed, knowing that they were discovered. Rev whistled loudly and slid into the middle of the battle, navigating between the various combatants.

Da’mi flew from the sky and circled the battle, as if a vulture anticipating his nourishment. It sought out the group of archers that was hanging back and loosing arrows aimed at the defenders. It slipped its talon from the flasks that were attached to it, which came crashing down, and exploded in the middle of the tightly knit group.

Cries could be heard from their direction, as they quickly scattered from each other. Though they were not down yet, they had terrible burns to complain about, not to mention that they lost their organization.

’Ere’s a good girl!” Rev muttered under his breath. He drew a dagger from his thigh in his left hand, and knocked the hidden blade in his right wrist. He headed towards the two mages, feeling more feral with each step. When he was only a twenty paces away, he aimed his second bolt at the group of mages. He was too late to stop the firestorm mage, however, as a rain of a thousand flames poured on the entire battlefield. A reckless move, as it hit many of the fighters on the side of the mages, some of whom were already burned!

Rev’s aim was disrupted as he was forced to jump out of the way of an incoming bolt of fire. He felt a rush of adrenaline, and began to rage inside. Trying to calm himself did him no good, as evidenced by his shaking arm. He could not get a clear shot at either of the mages, as his whole body shook with the cry of “Rip their throats out! You have two blades, why not use them?”

The Solvej, however, took to the problem herself, and used the Templar-taught Holy Smite. Both apostates were staggered by the attack, and left their spells uncast. “Oi Seeker!” She yelled, almost mockingly, “isn’t this what you’re good for.”

I was saving your arse, dammit! he muttered under his breath. He pulled the trigger as they were pushed back, and his rigged shot flew forth. A piece of fire hit it before it landed, however, and it exploded right in front of the two, fueled by the flame of the spell. Though they had been staggered before this, they were now on the ground, trying to get up.

The urge to run and fight directly was too strong at this point, especially given the fact that his cover was now blown. He rushed forward with the two blades, a dagger in his left hand, another jutting out of his right. They glowed in a brilliant flash of blue, as he recited a verse from the Chant of Light:

“The Veil holds no uncertainty for her,
And she will know no fear of death,
For the Maker shall be her beacon and her shield,
And her foundation, her sword!”

He swung the blades together, as if they were one, and as he quoted the last line, he launched himself on top of the bloodmage, and cut the throat of his enemy with a complementary Holy Smite. There was a fire in his eyes, one that would not be expected from him on usual occasions. The mage had cast his spell, however, and three Sloth Demons bubbled from the ground, surrounding the two ex-templars.

He stood from his kill and sheathed his dagger, replacing it with his sword. His left gauntlet glowed bright black, but his eyes had a fire in them even brighter.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Ethne Venscyath Character Portrait: Dekton Hellas Character Portrait: Solvej Gruenwald Character Portrait: Revaslin "Rev" Fenlen Character Portrait: Kerin Valar Character Portrait: Blathnat Ashling Character Portrait: Lukas Hoffman Character Portrait: Rhapscallion Linnell
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Ethne forced her breathing to steady, inhaling through her nose and holding for a split second before her lungs expelled the stale air through her mouth. Unarmored as she was, the pain was splitting, and she knew she needed to get the arrow out before she could heal it properly. Narrowed as her world was to her pain and her breathing, she almost didn’t notice the large shadow fall over her until she felt the familiar tug of magic being performed, and she pressed both palms into the sand, trying to get some leverage. She swore she could hear someone talking to her, and it was almost certainly dear Scally, the playful Warden she considered the closest thing to a friend she had out here, but she couldn't make out what he was saying and tried to wave him off. I'll be fine, I'll survive, please go help.

Her shoulder muscles screamed with the effort of righting herself, but she scarcely had the time to notice when a massive form in armor landed, his shoulder digging into her lower back. Agonized tears sprang to Ethne’s eyes, and she would have screamed, save that the breath was squeezed from her with the impact, and all she managed was a halfhearted wheeze, biting down on her own tongue by accident. The blood that welled up there filled her mouth with the taste of iron and shame, and how useless was she, that she could do nothing but squirm here.

It was, in fact, the sand that saved her life. The ground had just enough give that when her soft form was pressed into it, it absorbed a large portion of the impact so that her spine didn’t have to. A pitiful sound, something between a whimper and a soft keening, escaped her as the pressure was relieved. Neither of them was in much of a position to know it, but Suicide’s grappling had rolled the other warrior off her, rendering her able to move again, at least somewhat.

In the intervening time, Blathnat and Rhapscallion had noted the damage the archers were capable off and taken off, the latter disappearing from sight almost immediately with a skill any of the bandits could envy. He reappeared behind the first archer in the line, withdrawing the long knife suddenly protruding from the man’s chest. The ensuing chaos enabled Blathnat to get close without injury, and the two rogues made short work of the bow-wielding bandits.

Lukas, meanwhile, had jumped right into the fray, fearless and energetic as always. Though common sense dictated that magi should stay behind the lines and cause their damage from afar, there wasn’t really a line to speak of here, and his force magic was quite adept at keeping two knife-wielders at bay simultaneously.

Ethne spat blood out of her mouth and tied to concentrate. That arrow needed to come out or she couldn’t heal properly. It was an awkward reach, but she managed to get her uninjured arm behind her head so as to grasp the shaft of the projectile. Gritting her teeth so she wouldn’t bite anything soft again, she took a deep breath. One chance. I can do this. I can.

Not really sure if she believed herself or not, she summoned all of her meager strength and pulled, a harsh sob barely contained behind her clenched jaw. The pain was agonizing, but the arrow came out, and she tossed it away, summoning her magic for the requisite heal spell. The wound closed, most of the pain abating, and she blinked several times to clear her vision. The pull of familiar but unwelcome magic made itself known to her, and the elf’s blue-green eyes went wide.

Someone was calling demons from the Fade.

Scrabbling to her feet, Ethne took stock of the situation. The last archer dropped, but two more rogues appeared from cover and looked about to surround the bombastic Lukas. From her place on the rise, she could see that Suicide was in bear form, Kerin was just finishing someone off, and Solvej and the quiet Dalish man were facing down three sloth demons and a mage.

Thinking fast, Ethne projected her voice as loud as she was able. “Scally, Miss Blathnat, please help Ser Mage! Ser Solvej and Ser Dalish, the last caster!” That left the demons, and with a steadying intake of air, Ethne started forward. “Ser Dekton, Miss Berserker, please help me!” She lamented that she didn’t have all the proper names, but since half of them had ever introduced themselves, she couldn’t possibly know.

Whether or not anyone else followed her suggestions, Blathnat and Rhapscallion moved in to aid Lukas, the combined force of the two rogues and mage wiping out their remaining opposition with little difficulty. She hoped the other would listen, but this way something she could handle, would handle, one way or another. It would just be… easier, with help.

With each step, the aura of the Fade surrounding Ethne grew, and she held one hand at either side, having lost her staff back on the ground. She’d asked for Kerin and Suicide because the former was much more resistant to the Fade than anyone else here would be, and the latter would know what he was dealing with. Striding across the field, Ethne stared down the sloth demons, eyes narrowing to slits, her childlike face hardening in its expression until she almost looked her meager twenty-one years.

“You do not belong here.” The air in front of her shimmered and distorted, dancing around until the demons were shrouded in Fade, and she brought one hand up in front of her, twisting it and forming it into a fist clutched in front of her chest. All three demons staggered, but it would take much more than that. Her other hand launched a stonefist spell, and the pocket of Fade-energy around the middle demon dissipated as it was hurtled backwards, smashed against an outcropping of rock and killed as its ribcage caved in with the force of her spell.

It wasn’t a full-scale banishment, but she did not have the stamina for such a thing right now, so she’d settled for weakening them for her allies, which should do.


When the battle concluded, Ethne cast a quick group heal and picked her way carefully back to where she had fallen. Her staff, she saw, was broken, either under the weight of one of the two battling giants (for to her they may as well have been), or else just stepped on by someone during the course of the fight. Sighing a trifle sadly, she retrieved the pieces anyway; perhaps there was someone along the way who would know how to fix it. The focus stone was valuable, so it might at least get them a night’s rest and some food somewhere along the road.

Curiously, the note she’d been reading earlier was relatively undamaged, and she stooped to retrieve it, glancing it over once more. Either there were a few more bandits, or else this cache of theirs might be somewhere nearby. She flicked a hesitant gaze over the others, all of whom seemed to be in much better repair than she had been, and she tried very hard to ignore that her face still burned with embarrassment. “I, um.” It had to be worth a try. Surely, they would be willing to help, right? “This note, from the dead man. It says that there is some kind of cache somewhere nearby, possibly guarded by more bandits. They’ve been terrorizing this place. I mean, we might run into them anyway, so it just seems-” she cut herself off mid-ramble. “That is, I think it might be a good idea to hunt down these resources, and helping the people here does not seem bad either. Should we?”

Lukas was quick to throw in his beatific consent, and Rhapscallion agreed as well. Blathnat seemed to have no opinion, simply shrugging and looking around at the others, interested as to what their opinions might be.

Ethne just hoped that she didn’t sound like an incompetent fool, but then it might already be too late for that. She shifted her weight uncomfortably from foot to foot, looking anywhere but at their faces. Scally, she had sort of expected support from. He was kind that way. Lukas just seemed eager for adventure as far as she could tell, but she was glad at least two people were in some kind of agreement. She didn’t want to order anyone anywhere, and she wouldn’t. If it came to that, she’d just as soon abandon the option and continue forward without a large argument.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Ethne Venscyath Character Portrait: Dekton Hellas Character Portrait: Solvej Gruenwald Character Portrait: Revaslin "Rev" Fenlen Character Portrait: Blathnat Ashling Character Portrait: Rhapscallion Linnell
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♫♫♫

Hadn't Rhapscallion been so focused on the path before him, on being so entirely unseen by those who would reprimand him, then he wouldn't have bristled like a cowardly animal when the Dalish Elf melted from the shadows. Gooseflesh jolted him awake, upright. Electricity pumped and pulsed through his spine, riding along it's ridges and ending in exhausted bursts through his shoulder blades. His hands immediately gripped Conquest's pommel, accidentally squeezing his calves around the stallions ribs. This earned him an impatient whiny and a shake of it's maned head that pulled the reigns clear across it's muzzle, so that Rhapscallion had to snatch forward like a child who could not quite reach the candies on the top shelf. Murmuring softly to himself, humiliated. So far, this was not going as he'd imagined. Quickly glimpsing through his shuttered eyelashes, Rhapscallion returned the Seeker's greeting with an awkward hand-wave, which quickly transformed itself into an unbalanced head-bob. “Yes, time—can't waste too much of that.” The useless statement parched his throat like he'd recently poured an hourglass down his gullet. He was always sputtering nonsense when he was trying to be serious: stagnant and nonchalant. He hadn't meant to sound sarcastic, but by the hitching lilt of his voice, it might've seemed that way.

When he tired of pulling at Conquest's reigns to make him behave, Rhapscallion clumsily slipped from the saddle with a soft sigh, blown through his nostrils, and scanned the mass of individuals idling on their mounts, on their feet, on the wagon. That's when he spotted her – that is, Ethne. His mouth twisted into it's usual coy smile, spiraling maddeningly into a full-mouthed grin. Hadn't Commander Malik told him that she was in charge? A leader of sorts. He could believe it. Her eyes spun like stardust and galaxies – full of wonder and kindness and an endless optimism that brightened his skies, even when he felt they were particularly bleak. He was honoured to have met her all those days ago, when things were much simpler, along the battlefields that scrapped his bones clean of courage and threatened to jelly his knees. Restraint, what was that? The half-breed's long steps brought him in front of Ethne, where he proceeded to draw her into his arms in swing her in a lazy circle before catching sight of Solvej's slitted gaze through sweeps of strawberry-blond hair. He smiled apologetically, and placed her back on the ground, safe and sound, before lightly brushing her shoulders as if he'd dirtied a particularly expensive ornament. “Sorry, sorry. It's good to see you, Scya.

Slowly, cautiously, as if he were trying not to frighten a floppy-eared rabbit, Rhapscallion danced away, all tiptoes and ballerina movements – or, sashayed rather – and contented himself by fiddling with the leather straps of his scabbard as she spoke. We are to ride west for a day, whereupon we will rendezvous with a ship bound for Val Royeaux. He exhaled slowly, purposefully allowing all the oxygen in his lungs to escape. Perhaps, small parts of him would flit away, too. They were bound for Val Royeaux? It certainly wasn't a place he was fond of. He could already picture his father's puffed up face, cheeks brimming in anger – if he could wheeze out fire like a dragon trapped behind an iron furnace, Rhapscallion was sure that he would. He would have to tread carefully, straying for from the estate if they ventured too close. Besides, they wouldn't notice him slip away.

He weaselled his way through the throe of stamping horses, pawing impatiently at the ground with heavy hooves – hooves that would crush his toes if he wasn't careful. Once he reached his destination: Solvej's scrappy horse, Wagner. “Do you come here often, miss? Saving the world from darkspawn and, equally terrifying, baddies?” He looped his arm through the horses reigns, attempting to drape himself across it's muscled neck like a long-lashed brothel-woman looking for a good time. At least, Rhapscallion had been trying to look the part before Wagner pushed him aside like an irritating child, nostrils flaring wide as saucers, snuffling and huffing into his face until he threw his hands up in defeat. She scolded him in response. He smiled, all jittery with his flashing grins and rolling eyes. She smacked him in the arm with her gauntlet. He pretended as if it actually pained him, pretending to lug it around as if it were broken. This was their usual routine – he was often late for important events. Finally, Rhapscallion eased himself back onto Conquest's back, staggering forward a few times when the horse refused to stay still, before successfully easing into the caravan's heart. He preferred the company.




I think you'd best get used to boats, my friend. I doubt the archdemon was so kind as to plant all his most important flunkies in Orlais. I wouldn't; chewing on bloody decadent Orleians would make them fat and lazy. “Oi, oi, that pains me. We aren't all fat and lazy. Maybe snacking on a few Orleians would make them a tad more fashionable. Darkspawn flunkies in silk, imagine that.” Rhapscallion eased beside them, grinning foolishly as he imitated a hunch-backed creature twirling it's laces and skirts. Growly-faced and brooding eyebrows. He didn't mind boats, having travelled the expanse of private islands in illustrious ships. The gentle swaying on the rocking boats always put him straight to sleep, so he had to constantly pinch the inside of his wrists to keep himself from toppling over. Briny seawater always smelt fresh – it felt, mostly, like freedom. His fingers brushed through air, slicing a wide arc in front of him. “We might even see the grand, the brave, the dashing Chevalier in action, ready to pledge their lives to the blade.” He recounted the words in his lavish storytelling voice, tapering it to a soft coo. Rhapscallion sniffed and leaned forward across the ship's wooden rails, cupping his chin into his upturned hands. They were true knights. “I think you'd be impressed.

Instead of focusing on the road ahead after debarking the ship, Rhapscallion regarded his companions with the fascination reserved for small children discovering glass spheres or coloured marbles or beautifully carved wooden figures. The one who'd frightened him earlier had been the most puzzling of them all. He steered clear of the group and preferred to lag behind on his own. Who was he? How had he come been introduced to this mission? These private questions threatened to slip from his lips, though Rhapscallion buried his curiosity by, every so often, throwing him inquisitive glances. It might've looked like a man peeking out behind someone's skits, but he believed he appeared like a man who was opening the door to further conversation, beyond discussing their loss of time.

"Bandits!" Bandits? A bulky mass of weight slammed into Conquest's chest. Flashes of gnashed teeth and the sound of battle roars assaulted him, breaking down his senses into one carnal, one imperative command: disappear. The stallion reared, kicking out it's front legs at the attacker and Rhapscallion tumbled off his rump like a ball-jointed marionette. His flailing limbs found no purchase. He couldn't have even reached the stirrups if he'd tried. In lieu of his clumsy fall, the half-breed's body crumpled, landing with a grunt on his buttocks, in a puff of hazy grey smoke. It flicked upwards in fat plumes, swirling with unseen movement.

His blades immediately slipped from their scabbards, singing through the air like freed canaries. It was a sweet sound that he was careful not to enjoy too much. What had Commander Malik told him that one fateful day? Laughing like a madman, speckled with blood. His first battle. A man's appetite for carnage can seem endless, so reign it in, control it, and it will not control you on your darkest days. He'd taken it to heart. Though, this did not mean he was not deadly. One decoy distracted a nearby warrior: foppish grin, glinting eyes, exaggerated movements. This was not his target. Rhapscallion moved through the throng of engaged fighters, easily slipping past falling blades and whizzing arrows, before he slipped his blade through a rogue's gaping face. Slipped through like butter, both ways. His image flashed like a broken film, before slipping back into the background. The man had been trained on Ethne, who laid on her side, clearly injured. Experienced eyes tracked unseen movements in the underbrush. Pausing for a few moments, Rhapscallion hunkered next to Ethne and sloughed off his stealthy-camouflage like a discarded cloak.

Maker's breath—... you, you've been shot. You are not alright.

Then, the half-breed was blown from his feet again in a mass of tangled limbs. A massive warrior had pushed him away, rolling on top of Ethne. He hadn't had time to push himself back to his feet, because Suicide had already dealt with that cretin. Arrows continued to pepper the grounds around them, so he traded a knowing glance with Blathnat and sprang back to his feet, disappearing in a wave of shimmer, before slashing out his blades in unison. Necks were slit, mercifully. The last buckled under Blathnat's extracted blade, toppling over his longbow: face pushed into the dirt. “Scally, Miss Blathnat, please help Ser Mage! Ser Solvej and Ser Dalish, the last caster!” His mouth twisted sourly as he scanned the remaining caster, eyes squinted. It only took him a moment to clip the man's wings, his Achilles tendon, to allow someone else to finish the bloody job. Everything else seemed to fall in place - they'd one this battle, it seemed. It still left his mouth dry, parched like a desert.

He gladly accepted Ethne's healing, lifting his rumpled shirt where he'd bruised his ribs. Though, he'd been eying her as if the arrow was still stuck through her shoulder. As if she'd fall on the ground at any moment, dead to the world. So, the half-breed mutely followed her and quietly asked the repeated question: Are you sure you're okay? Do you want some water? Would you like to sit down? He listened intently when Ethen described the dead man's letter, meekly suggesting that it'd be for the greater good if they stuck around and saw to the bandits terrorizing innocent folk. He blinked once, then twice, before pumping his fist in the air.

"It's settled then! Right? It's what we're here for. Helping and all."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Ethne Venscyath Character Portrait: Dekton Hellas Character Portrait: Kerin Valar Character Portrait: Rhapscallion Linnell
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"It's Kerin, twig-bean!" The dwarf called from atop the bandit she had just tackled. She stood, straddling the bandit with her axe raised high above her head, just waiting for the finishing blow. She then bellowed, "Kerin Valar, casteless no more!" bringing the axe down heavy in a killer blow that split the head of the bandit in twain. A spray of gore colored her dwarven armor a shade of crimson, but she seemed to hardly notice. She stepped off of her victim, shouldering her axe looking for the next contestant. Thankfully, due to Ethne's call, the next corpse was obvious-- Even if it was a strange sight. "Demons?! What are demons doing here?" she said, irritation filling her voice. As if a roving band of bandits weren't enough, they had demons? No matter, whether it be from this world or the next, none would stand against the casteless berserker.

Kerin hefted her axe by the neck and ran to meet catch up with Ethne and Suicide. Kerin had no idea what kind of demons these were, as life in Dust Town didn't have such excitement. The dwarven resistance to the fade meant that they could not contact the demons, though she always heard stories about the malefic creatures residing in the deep roads. Who knew she'd face one so soon-- Among a group of the common bandit rabble. Certainly not her. Looked like she'd pick quite the exciting mission for herself.

She arrived just as Ethne did something to the air around the demons. Kerin ventured an approving glance at the girl. She might have been tiny, but she could take an arrow like a champ. As the demons staggered, she took the opportunity to strike along side Ethne's stone fist. Much like the spell, she threw herself at the demon, throwing all of her weight and muscle into her shoulder. The impact might not have been as strong as a fist of stone, but still. The berserker growled, jabbing the head of the axe into the belly of the demon again and again. Her barrage was relentless and the demon was steadily being beaten back, though not without getting some hits in itself.

The demon managed to rake the chest of the berserker, but that only served as fuel to the fires. She shrugged off claws as if they were nothing and followed up with a headbutt to the creature's chest. She then bashed with the head of her axe once more, this time putting distance between herself and the demon. Now with room to work, Kerin spun to gain momentum with her axe and came down with all the fury of the stone itself. The axe easily cleaved through the demon and didn't stop until one side was completely buried into the dirt beneath.

With the battle nearing it's end, Kerin exhaled deeply. She was tired, being in a state of near frenzy took a lot of energy.




Kerin leaned on her axe, helmet under her arm, as Ethne caste a group spell. Kerin grumbled, not taking too kindly to the spell, but otherwise kept her mouth shut. She wasn't the one who got pelted by an arrow after all... Though the rain of fair did manage to scorch a bit of fur on her armor. Blood ran freely down her armor and a drop was making it's way down her cheek, bringing attention to the tattoo she bore. Whether the blood was hers or anothers was open to debate. If it was hers, she didn't seem like she was injured.

"Calm down hopscotch," Kerin told the flighty rogue. He had been following Ethne and pestering her... Well, maybe not pestering her per se, but it was sure bothering Kerin. "You're irritating me," she said in no kind terms. Though she did agree with the man on one thing. They should go clear out the bandits, though perhaps not for the same reason. "Let's go then. I hardly got any blood on my axe and I'm itching to see that problem fixed," she said with an evil grin. "Besides, we need something to fill this wagon, and ill-gotten gains from bandits sounds like it'll do the trick," she added.

Setting

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Character Portrait: Ethne Venscyath Character Portrait: Dekton Hellas Character Portrait: Kerin Valar
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Demons.

Suicide had some experience with them, being a mage as he was. Despite what many Templars would likely think, however, Suicide had never made any dealings with them. He was satisfied with his power, and didn't wish to shackle himself to some demon in order to acquire more.

The shapeshifter heard the Dreamer's orders, even despite him being in bear form and being more than a little clouded by his natural bloodlust. He turned his head to see her standing once more, despite the battle he and the bandit warrior had had more or less on top of her. And she appeared... alright. She'd removed the arrow, and the wound was healed effectively. She had more strength in her than she seemed. He'd expected as much, considering that the Warden-Commander wouldn't have chosen her to lead the mission if she was weak, but it was still reassuring to see firsthand.

Two arrows thudded into his side, causing Suicide to snarl and turn his head back towards the fight. He was a big target like this, especially standing still. The archers responsible were being cleaned up by some of the others, however, so revenge wouldn't be possible. One struck just under his ribcage, the other burying itself high up in his rear leg. He still needed to deal with these demons, as Ethne had requested his help, and he meant to give it. Before he reached one, however, the girl had cast a spell to weaken them, and then launched a fist of stone hurtling into one, crushing it. The berserker, Kerin Valar, tore into another one.

Suicide launched himself upon the third, his weight crashing down upon the staggered sloth demon. Sloth seemed a poor choice, as they relied on thoughts of lethargy and were not all that adept in straight combat, preferring instead to subdue their opponents by infecting their thoughts. Still in bear form, Suicide pinned the demon down upon the sand with his claws, sinking them deep into the creature's chest. His teeth closed around one of the demon's arms as it struggled, and with a single violent jerk of his head, the arm was torn from its socket. He tossed it aside as the the demon slashed at him with the other arm, his claws digging into the flesh of Suicide's shoulder. He snarled, and wasted no further time, tearing apart with his claws already in the demon's chest, ripping the creature open and ending its existence in the mortal realm.

Once the fight was concluded, Suicide walked with thumping footfalls over to where the group was gathering, his own blood dripping from his side, rear leg, and front shoulder, and the blood of enemies dripping from his teeth and claws. Ethne was nervously suggesting to the group that they pursue these bandits to a cache they had stored somewhere, for the purposes of both acquiring the supplies within the cache, as well as ridding the locals of the bandits that plagued them. Suicide strongly wished he was back in human form at moment, as he would have attempted to reassure the girl that the group was hers to command. They had all willingly joined the group with the knowledge that she would be the leader, and that they were all still here was proof that they were willing to follow her lead. She needed to give herself more credit.

But as it was, all Suicide could do was growl, and so he bobbed his head in the direction of the two arrows stuck in his side and rear, growing in an annoyed manner. He hoped someone would get the message and remove the arrows for him, else he'd have to simply transform back and hope for the best. He'd learned the hard way that shifting forms whilst shot by arrows could have unpleasant effects.

But he had no objection to hunting these bandits down. Helping the locals was not necessarily a primary concern of his, but the prospect of more battle so soon was not one he wished to pass up. They were bound for a ship, at which point they would have plenty of opportunity to rest. It seemed wise, and wholly tempting, to indulge themselves in further bloodshed while they had the chance.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Ethne Venscyath Character Portrait: Dekton Hellas Character Portrait: Solvej Gruenwald Character Portrait: Revaslin "Rev" Fenlen
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The Seeker stepped in, as she thought he would, but the situation seemed to grow worse rather than better in the aftermath. Funny thing, that. Solvej was kept from further rumination by a surprisingly authoritative tone pronouncing orders. It was no gruff bark or harsh command but Ethne’s diction was clear and apparently back with sound reasoning, so the former Templar saw no reason to do otherwise.

Still, one mage between her and the Seeker wasn’t much, and she locked eyes with the Dalish man, shrugging and backing off with a quip. The deed was his, if he wanted it. She was more interested in how they’d wound up in this situation in the first place.

Shaking the blood and ichor off the tip of her spear, Solvej studied the battle’s conclusion with sharp eyes. A scholar she was not, and she had been raised in no noble household. But the Chantry had taught her to read and write, and the Templars had taught her tactics. The bandits had hidden themselves behind a rise, which was not a bad move for an ambush on terrain like this. The first shot had been taken only after Ethne had searched the body and turned around, indicating that they’d probably wanted the little elf to find whatever she did, but timed to leave her without the ability to raise an alarm.

Well done, really. The redheaded woman replaced her spear at her back and joined the group as they formed back together after the battle. It still shouldn’t have been possible. Revaslin was scouting ahead, as he’d made it a point to do on their journey from Starkhaven. She knew that he was not an incompetent, and the ambush was not so clever that he would have missed it. Which meant that he knew, and had failed to warn them of it.

A muscle in Solvej’s jaw jumped as she clenched her teeth together. Rat bastard. Normally, she’d call him out on this right now, but they couldn’t risk such an early blow to unit cohesiveness. A Warden guilty of the same failure would have been expelled from the order at the very least. A Templar probably would have been stripped of his rank and publicly tried for some kind of treason, if not executed outright, for demons would have been suspected. It was only made worse by the fact that they’d nearly lost Ethne. A few inches over, and that arrow might well have been fatal. No other person in the group was singularly necessary: Wardens they had to spare, and the other losses would be felt, but not mission-ending. Without the Dreamer, they had no trail to follow.

The Seeker was going to have a nasty visit from her in the near future, but hopefully the matter would be something she could resolve without any of the others needing to know about it.

She’d kill him to save the mission, without hesitation.

It probably wouldn’t be necessary, and she’d really rather not, but things didn’t always go according to plan.

The others seemed to be debating the wisdom of chasing down the thread, and she shrugged easily. Her wounds, minor as they were, had been healed already, though she understood what the bear was getting at and strode to his side. “It’s clearly a trap,” she pointed out, “but as long as we know that, I have no problem springing it.” A short pause, then: “Hey Venscyath. They didn’t use barbed arrowheads, did they?”

The elf-girl shook her head. “No, um… they were the normal kind. Mine came out, er… cleanly.”

Solvej nodded. “Do me a favor here, Hellas, and try not to accidentally kill me while I get these out.” The woman’s tone was wry rather than truly cautionary, and she took hold of the first shaft, yanking without warning. Pain was always worse when you were expecting it, she had found, and tensing would not help matters any here. The second followed quickly, and she stuck both into the sand and stepped away.

“You want to take care of this before we go?” she asked the healer with a jerk of her head to where Suicide was still bleeding from the wounds.

If there was one thing Ethne was confident in, in was her abilities as a healer. They alone, she had always felt, were something that could not be taken and twisted into some wicked thing with dark purpose, and she smiled, brightly, nodding and casting another heal spell on the still bear-shaped Dekton.

“Lovely. Okay, well, I’m not hearing any protests, so maybe we should get this show on the road, yes?” Solvej was impatient to get going. They’d make their ship in plenty of time even with the detour, she was sure, because any friend of Malik’s was tenacious enough to wait a while, but that didn’t mean he wanted to waste the rest of her life killing bandits.

Of course, the Seeker chose the moment to protest, and Solvej resisted the urge to either punch him per her earlier realization or else just pinch the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger and sigh deeply. “The boat will wait, I know that for a fact. What’s more, Venscyath here lost her staff in the confrontation, and she needs a new one as soon as possible. If we want to be able to replace other damaged equipment, we need money as well. Missions that nobody knows about aren’t funded that well because nobody’s allowed to notice the missing funds, yes?” Actually, Malik had entrusted a token amount to her care, but other than that and their personal fortunes (or lack thereof), the group was completely penniless. The resources that would come from this, whatever they were, were probably saleable, and thus as close to a lucky strike as Solvej would ever allow herself to believe in.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Ethne Venscyath Character Portrait: Dekton Hellas Character Portrait: Solvej Gruenwald Character Portrait: Revaslin "Rev" Fenlen Character Portrait: Kerin Valar Character Portrait: Blathnat Ashling Character Portrait: Lukas Hoffman Character Portrait: Rhapscallion Linnell
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Scally was fussing again, and though it did give Ethne a nice dose of the warm-fuzzies, now was probably not the best time for it, especially if the irritation Kerin was expressing was not hers alone. Turning, the mage reached up and placed an index finger to his lips in an attempt to shush him. “I’m fine Scally, truly. Thank you, though.” She smiled and lowered her hand, pivoting again so that she was facing the group, several of whom had considerable things to say regarding the choice before them.

What the Seeker- for that was what Solvej had called him, and it sounded perhaps less crude than the Dalish, which was the only thing she’d known about him until now- said troubled her perhaps the most, though the ex-Templar’s rejoinder was quick in coming. Both of their arguments carried the ponderous weight of logic, but… she wasn’t exactly sure what she was supposed to do here. For most of her life, all of Ethne’s decisions had been made for her, regardless of her own personal opinions on any matter from the clothes she wore to how she used her gifts. She certainly did not want anyone here to feel the same way, least of all because of her.

“Well,” she pronounced slowly, drawing out the vowel just a little longer than normal, “this technically falls outside of the parameters of the mission, which means that each of you is free to act as you choose. Therefore, serah, if you do not desire to come, you need not do so. Indeed, if you think the most prudent course of action would be to find the ship and convince it to sail off without the rest of us, I certainly will not impose upon you to do otherwise.” There was the faintest note of humor in her tone, but she was not mocking him, or if she was, it was so gentle it could hardly be considered mocking.

“As for anyone who wishes to find these bandits, whatever your reasons, I’d welcome the company.” With a nod, Ethne took up her horse’s reins and started forward, this time listening intently for any possible ambush, though she couldn’t say she’d hear one if it was there.



As it turned out, Revaslin need not have worried, for the bandit encampment was on the way to the rendezvous point, and what was more, all the bandits left in it were dead, bodies strewn about the ground in the grotesque patterns of some demented child-artist with blood-colored fingerpaints. Armor plating was torn open, entrails spewed about the sand, limbs resting ripped free of their trunks. Some even looked gnawed-upon, rents torn into exposed flesh of a more razor-edged kind than Suicide’s bear-jaws would produce.

Of course, there was scarcely time to note any of this, for the much more prevalent observation was that the camp which had once belonged to bandits was now overrun by the sickly-white forms of Darkspawn, hurlocks and genlocks to be precise. The spawn were a bit too numerous to count in one glance, and they certainly did not spare the travellers the time to make an accurate poll by numbering heads.

“Be careful!” Ethne shouted, though perhaps unnecessarily. What she really meant was if you’re not already a Warden, you might get the Taint, but there wasn’t really much choice but to expose themselves to that possibility.

Attempting to be a little smarter about her tactics this time, she immediately fell behind the lines created by her comrades, aiming a Tempest far enough back that it would hit only the oncoming darkspawn with its bolts of white lightning. This battle, rife as it was with foes, was likely to be a bit more dragged out than the first, and she immediately switched her focus to healing, shooting off raw spellpower from her hands while she waited for someone to become injured.

As of yet, however, everyone was still hale and whole, and none of the Darkspawn had broken through to reach her. A tingle traveled down her arm as she attacked again, lobbing the white-violet magical energy over Kerin’s head to hit an incoming Hurlock. Her attacks were less effective without a staff to channel them through, but as long as she conserved her energy for healing, everything would be all right.

Ethne kept herself low, wary of arrows, and cast an arcane shield for good measure, not lingering too long in the same spot for fear of making an easy target of herself. She could not drop into stealth, nor bat away arrows with her large weapon, so this would have to be good enough for now. A few Darkspawn dropped under the sheer tenacity of her attacks, unable to reach her to retaliate, and she refocused her attention on the archers after that.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Ethne Venscyath Character Portrait: Dekton Hellas Character Portrait: Solvej Gruenwald Character Portrait: Revaslin "Rev" Fenlen Character Portrait: Kerin Valar
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Suicide sent an annoyed growl in the Seeker's direction as he argued against "going out of their way to meet another fight." It was exactly what they should be doing! Well, it was what the shapeshifter wanted to do, anyway. Darkspawn, bandits, demons and blood mages... what difference did it make, really? There was still the mission, of course, but Suicide hadn't really signed on for that purpose, exactly. It was merely the prospect of meeting foes alongside worthy companionship that lured him. The foes didn't actually matter, only the fight.

He cared nothing for the locals. He'd never met them. He never would. Maybe focusing their efforts on stopping the Blight would help them more. Maybe if they didn't deal with these highwaymen now they'd be dead before the darkspawn reached them. Maybe Suicide didn't care either way. An enemy was here, right now, and they had the opportunity to meet them and stain the sand with their blood. It wasn't a decision that needed much argument, in Suicide's mind.

The spear armed woman, Solvej, came to his side, understanding the meaning of his growl, and asking him not to maul her when she removed the arrows from his side. She needn't worry, however, as Suicide relaxed his body when he felt her hand close around the first arrow shaft. All he gave was a low growl when they were ripped out. The Dreamer was quick to heal his wounds when the arrows were removed, further proving her worth. Once fully healed, he shifted back to human form, and rose to his full height.

"If a fight awaits us, then we should meet it," he said, trying to find a way to word things so that the others might become more agreeable. "And we would be wise to better learn how to battle as a group, before we encounter the true threats further down the Path." He rolled his head around on his shoulders, sending out a few audible pops from his neck. This first fight only ignited his appetite. It hadn't come close to sating it.

Huh. Had he always been so tall? She must not have noticed from the back of her draft horse, but now that she was standing right next to him, listening to the bass rumbles that constituted his voice, she came to the amused realization that he really wasn’t that much smaller as a person than as a bear. His sentiments were after her own heart, besides.

“No time like the present,” she added with a shrug, trailing after the elf with a lazy stride. Wagner would follow on his own. He always did.

The little one’s handling of her erstwhile mentee produced genuine laughter in Solvej, but she constrained it, leashing the mirth until it was only a constrained smile. She would perhaps not bother ordinarily, but perhaps it was best to avoid further delay. There was a certain kind of worthiness to Ethne, after all, even if it wasn’t the kind of thing most people made much of. Anyone who could get Rhapscallion to stop fretting without physical confrontation deserved a bloody medal, as far as she was concerned, and she shot him a sly look. “Someone’s got you all figured out, eh?”



Solvej could sense the Darkspawn long before they revealed themselves, but they were upon the encampment before her warning would have held any relevance, and she didn’t wait for the enemy to make the first move this time. Her spear was in her hand, held out and to one side as she charged, letting her momentum disembowel the first fiend as she crashed into the line. The sound of metal puncturing leather followed by the tear of flesh and several wet pops was an old one to her recollection. She vaguely heard Ethne’s entreaty towards caution, but she was a Grey Warden, Tainted already and made for this.

There were no happy endings for people like her, only bloody ones. Until she found hers, she’d keep on bathing in the ichor of the foulest beings in Thedas, without ceasing.

Refusing to allow her forward progress to tear her weapon from her grasp, Solvej pivoted gracefully, extracting her weapon from its flesh-sheath and blending the movement into a smooth slice across the throat of the next. The less wasted movement, the better.

Kerin found herself drawn to the naked chest of the shapeshifter... It was so large and muscled. What did these surfacers eat to grow 'em like that? And his words-- his need for the coming battle merely served to further endear the man to Kerin. Alas, her appreciation for the fine physique and bloodlust of this marvelously sculpted human would have to wait, as there were more corpses that needed buried. These ones however came in darkspawn flavor. True, while the foe didn't matter, she could have thought of better enemies to face than darkspawn. Kerin merely grunted her displeasure and slammed her helmet on to her head again. Once more into the breach.

"I'll keep my mouth shut twig-bean," Kerin answered Ethne's caution. Darkspawn and their taint were well known in Orzammar. She knew better than to get their tainted blood in their mouth, else suffer the side-effects. Unfortunately, that meant no battle cries as this battle waged. Which meant she'd have to get their attention in... Another manner. She charged forward, growling all the way, along with her companions and crashed into the line of darkspawn. Instead of whipping her axe about madly, she used the back handle to kneecap a nearby hurlock, dropping him into a kneel. Without hesitating Kerin vaulted on the creature's shoulder and used it as a springboard to launch herself into the air.

Kerin lead with her axe as gravity took effect, completely pulverizing the genlock under her and sending out a tremor from the point of impact, staggering those darkspawn nearby for her companions to take advantage of.

Suicide refrained from shifting into an animal form upon seeing the darkspawn. He figured he would end up chomping down on one and ending up with the Taint. He had other tools at his disposal, however. He rushed into the fray behind Solvej and Kerin, the two he felt most drawn to fight directly alongside. It seemed perhaps unwise, considering that he was unarmed, and unarmored, but it was acts like these that Suicide was known for. His name hadn't been earned for nothing, after all.

He came up behind one of the genlocks Kerin had staggering backwards, placing one powerful hand around the creature's chin, the other on the back of its head, before twisting violently, snapping the darkspawn's neck and letting it collapse to the ground. He sent a slash of ice magic at the nearest hurlock, carving its chest open. Its armor proved to be of little use against his spells. As Solvej was slicing across the throat of a darkspawn, Suicide caught sight of a Shriek hurtling its way towards her, to attack her from her blindside. Suicide blasted a cone of cold in its direction, hoping to freeze it in place, but it evaded the spell, which froze a pair of hurlocks instead.

"Behind you!" was all the warning Suicide was able to give her, as he shattered one of the beasts he'd frozen with a Stonefist.

A tremor rocked the ground, issuing a shockwave that stunned several nearby ‘Spawn, and Solvej grinned. That was Kerin at work, or she was an Orlesian whore. Steadying her own feet wasn’t much of a problem, and she slid her left foot backwards, about to whirl on the next fool Taint-creature with a laugh when she heard a warning over the din.

Truncating her movement, Solvej brought the haft of her spear parallel against her forearm, point behind her, and jerked backward. The exhalation of fetid breath and a raspy cry informed her that she’d struck the intended target, and a grim smile lifted her lips as she twisted the polearm, yanking it free and letting the shriek hit the ground. That left her free to shatter one of the frozen Hurlocks, an opportunity she took full advantage of. Long strides carried her forward, muscles bunching beneath her as she jumped, her height sufficient to add extra clout to her aptly-named mighty blow. The ice sculpture broke like so much glass, the Darkspawn within crunching under her weighted boots.

A glance over her shoulder informed her that though both of the others were holding court in self-made graveyards, there were yet more fools eager to test their luck. One such Darkspawn was sneaking and vanished just a few yards behind the mage. Well, only one thing for it then.

“Oi Suicide! Duck!” she bellowed, then hefted her spear in her hand. It wasn’t really made for what she was about to do, but she knew from much more desperate situations than this that it would work. She had no more than three running steps and a hop to make it work, but it would work.

With a perhaps inappropriately-gleeful “Yah!” Solvej hurled her spear with as much strength and finesse as she was able, bending to scoop up a discarded darkspawn shield while she was at it. Not the best weapon-situation to be in, but she liked to think of herself as flexible.

The thrown weapon did in fact collide with the stealthed Darkspawn as it was preparing to backstab the mage, but Solvej found herself surrounded by at least four more for her trouble. “Oh Fate, I’ve missed you, you sodding bitch,” she murmured with a dark chuckle.

Kerin growled, not risking opening her mouth for a true berserker roar. Her little stunt may have stunned the darkspawn, but it also catapulted her into their line. She quickly pivoted completely around to meet the exposed back of th darkspawn she had used as a springboard. He was still stunned due to the entire stock of a dwarf dancing on his shoulders. Kerin strode forward as she hefted the axe behind her. She approached the hurlock with cold steel eyes. She growled, "Kneel before the axeman," and brought the heavy axe down upon the spine of the beast, coating the weapon and armor with a fresh layer of blood.

She walked past the dead beast, ripping the axe free and approached the next victim. Rather, next pack of victims. Solvej managed to find herself surrounded by a group of four darkspawn. The ever present snarl painted on Kerin's face did not diminish in the least and she quickly dove back into the fray. She set her foot and held a loose grip on her axe. She then held the axe out and began to spin, the blades becoming a whirlwind of devastastion. She felt the cut of two darkspawn fall beneath her axe and stopped to find herself back to back with Solvej. An unarmed Solvej at that.

"No fate," she muttered so that Solvej could hear. She then used her free hand to quickly grip the shortsword in her sheath, pulling it free and presenting it to the Warden. "But what we make," she stated plainly.

The shapeshifter did indeed duck as Solvej hurled her spear where his head had formerly been. He heard it plunge through the chest of the darkspawn behind him. He turned to see the creature crash in a heap to the ground, before he ripped the spear from its chest in one swipe of his powerful arm. The dwarf had taken care of two of the creatures that now surrounded Solvej looking for an easy kill, but two remained. Suicide ran towards her, tossing the spear back at her before throwing his hands into the air, petrifying the darkspawn that had been closest to striking the woman, leaving it encased in stone, its sword arm hanging above its head. The other was a genlock, and that one's attention was fixated away from the charging shapeshifter.

He bowled into it, leading with his shoulder, smacking the smaller darkspawn to the ground, flat on its back. He then angled himself around the side of the creature, and with one swift thrust of his foot he brought his heel down upon the genlock's skull, caving it in with a sickening crunch and squish of bone and brain matter. He heard Solvej and Kerin trade comments about fate.

"The Path ends when we are finished with it," he said. "Not here."

Solvej’s spear thudded into the ground a few yards from her location, and she grinned even as the two nearest Darkspawn fell to Kerin’s onslaught. She accepted the shortsword, hefting the shield and shoring up her position back to back with the dwarf, deflecting an incoming swing with the shield even as dwarf spoke. “Ah, an optimist. My favorite kind of crazy.”

Fortunately, she didn’t have to block the next attempted strike, because the offending Darkspawn was petrified by an incoming Dekton. Shrugging, Solvej struck first with the pommel of the shortsword at one of its joints and then followed up with a heavy kick to the same location. It was the final blow from the shield that did it though, and the thing lost its arm and its structural integrity simultaneously, crumbling.

“The path, eh? Well, as long as it keeps leading me to the blood of my foes, I suppose I can’t complain.” Solvej took the opportunity to retrieve her spear, spinning and throwing the shield like a discus into a random cluster of ‘Spawn and sliding the shortsword into her belt before wrenching her trusty companion from soft, sandy earth in which it had landed. She was a little banged up, but the battle had only just begun.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Ethne Venscyath Character Portrait: Dekton Hellas Character Portrait: Solvej Gruenwald Character Portrait: Kerin Valar Character Portrait: Lukas Hoffman
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Lukas flung himself in a great bound almost recklessly into the thick of the fight, but found himself preoccupied with a couple of rouges mistakenly assuming the half-elf would make for easy enough prey as well as eliminating a mage that could give them trouble. Perhaps if they had blades longer than there forearms, they could have reached the force wielder, but as things stood it would take less effort on the mage’s part to keep them at a distance.

One of them became brazen and dove toward Hoffman, not unlike a wild-cat pouncing from the high grass, iron teeth ready to gash and knaw through muscle and marrow. In response to this Lukas jutted his fist at the rouge, which would seem odd and premature to the onlooker now that it was merely an extended and vulnerable limb. Except only a second later did that rouge find himself a careening pile of flesh sailing to a trunk of a tree, spine bent beyond limitations and repair. Soon after his partner met a similar fate. Unbeknownst to him at the time another couple of rouges were to take advantage of his current attentions, however they were dealt with by his companions, to which he was truly grateful.

After all was said and done, they regained their bearings and tended to what wounds they received. Their mouse like leader proposed to following information she had found on a note, pertaining to another bramble of bandits. Naturally Lukas whooped, “Yeah! Killing these bastards is just oodles of fun!” Most of the others were either just as excited, or content to follow it through. There was an objection with legitimate concerns, but it seemed that everyone’s minds had already been made up.




He felt a rumble in the back of his skull, and whatever bright smile he wore lessened into a near frown.

Darkspawn.

In no time at all they had another battle on their hands, not against mere bandits , whose bodies already littered the area, but against the beastly Blighters for which this team was assembled. Without being told, three of his comrades already pushed themselves into the front, and were dispatching foes with great tenacity. Regaining a bit of his grin, Lukas off-handedly commented, “Now why do they get to have all the fun?” And soon enough he went to join them, halfway to his comrades he did give them a gift. Expelling some of his magic anyone wielding a weapon now would find such tools aflame, an extra edge in the fight.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Ethne Venscyath Character Portrait: Dekton Hellas Character Portrait: Solvej Gruenwald Character Portrait: Revaslin "Rev" Fenlen Character Portrait: Kerin Valar Character Portrait: Lukas Hoffman Character Portrait: Rhapscallion Linnell
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Rhapscallion stopped doggedly in his tracks, leaning precariously forward as Ethne shushed him with a finger to his lips. His words died off, trailing off into nothingness. His ghostly blue eyes widened, then squinted off into the beginning of laughing crow's feet. He was satisfied by her answer. He understood well enough that she'd tell him if she were hurt, or at least, he hoped she would. His shoulders were meant to be lent on. The bloody – albeit, adorable – munchkin leaned heavily across her grounded axe, tucking her helmet under her armpit and looking every bit as exasperated as most felt when in his company. He'd seen those looks before. Still, Rhapscallion couldn't help but grin and sidle up beside her, unruffled by her unkind words. “I was worried about you, too, y'know.” As if predicting some kind of repercussion for his comment, the half-breed skipped away and folded his fingers together behind his head. His mouth folded into a straight line, serious. “With that axe, you're nearly as frightening as Suicide.” It was the sort of compliment Kerin would accept. It was better than whisking his fingers through her snowy white hair – looked as soft as rabbit's fur, and he bet they felt the same. He'd probably lose an arm in the process. Worth it.

His mouth worked as if he were tasting something particularly sour, moving it to the corner's of his puffed cheeks. Who'd disrupted their jolly accession? Rhapscallion's eyes roved across the group and landed squarely on the naysayer – the Seeker. The quiet one who'd preferred the company of cicadas and crickets. Unlike the rowdy scallywags he was used to dealing with, the Seeker responded calmly, gently, without malicious intent. As if he were piecing something out by himself. Passion threatened to take hold of his tongue, and make him say something truly foolish. The half-breed buried his swilling feelings, tipped his chin forward. “Without Ethne, we can't continue on with the mission. As soon as we finish off the bandits, then we can continue on – won't take long with our abilities, would it?” Would they have been willing to turn a blind eye on all those who suffered for the greater good. He knew that Ethne could never shutter her eyes and ignore any suffering people, regardless of race, gender, or her own well-being. Would the ones' who suffered understand their need to fulfill their duties, ending the Blight, when their loved ones died in their arms? He did not think so.

Without Ethne, they could not continue onwards. It was simple. Rhapscallion smiled brightly as she turned towards the beast-formed Suicide and cast another spell across the sluggishly bleeding wounds where Solvej had extracted the arrows. Solvej – always the first to do away with dirty, bloody business. Always the first to volunteer her services. Initially, Rhapscallion had reached forward, then flinched away, fingers retracting away from his matted fur, when Suicide's growling ursine voice tumbled from his curled lips. He hadn't meant to. He was still grateful that Solvej had stepped forward, filling in his place without hesitating and hoped, wryly, that Suicide hadn't noticed his tremblings fingers. When had he been so afraid of someone? Never. Never. Even when Suicide had returned to his original form – he would've said less frightening, but he wasn't so sure – Rhapscallion couldn't help but inconspicuously glance in his direction and flicker his eyebrows up across his forehead.

You would certainly make a great knight.

Squinting eyes regarded him for a few more moment's before he finally nodded, clearly satisfied with some sort of mental conjunction that he'd pieced together. Ginormous puzzle completed. Rhapscallion's shoulders rolled upwards, then slacked down again when he noticed Solvej looking at him – mirth and amusement clearly pinned and displayed on her lips, in the corners of her eyes. “Figured me, the splendorous Hopscotch, out?” He parroted softly, scrunching his face, placing his hands across his chest in an act of obliviousness. Well, the half-breed was oblivious. “I don't know what you're talking about, Captain.




There is no glory in battle, even when you're facing terrible foes like bandits who prey on the innocent. Rhapscallion had never felt the steely sensation of justice pulsing through his veins as smooth and right as water, as positively good as unselfish righteousness. He did not feel guilty for the bandits, but he did feel a certain wrongness licking as his wounds. How could people like this even exist? The price of battle – depending on the situation, on the unfolding events – was always the end to cruelty by the means of spilling blood. Certainly, some could be bought with coin, but the half-breed very much doubted that any of the group wanted to reduce themselves to charismatic banter. He'd already noticed Kerin's fingertips dancing across the blade of her axe, affectionate as if she were cradling a lover and antsy as a youngster who'd been given the chance to prove himself. She did not need to prove herself. She simply, in all of her entirety, yearned for battle. It sang through the air, loud and clear. For now, Rhapscallion wasn't sure whether or not he admired these traits or disagreed with them.

Hasty, long-legged limbs slowly halted. His feet scuffed through the dust, kicking up small cyclones at the abruptness of his pause. His eyes, his spectral orbs, slowly, excruciatingly slow, took in the brutality of the situation. Everyone had been slaughter, strewn across the encampment like discarded dolls. Muscles jumped in his jawline. There were entrails shlepped across abdomens like fat worms seeping internal juices and who-knows-what else. Protruding ribs glistening wetly in the sun, baring themselves like jagged ruins. Their faces were contorted in awful angles, lips twisted and tongues lolling from the corner's like a slaughtered animal. What could've done this? His stomach gave an unpleasant lurch, threatening to spill it's contents across his leather boots. His nice leather boots. He swallowed thickly, looked away and busied himself by looking at the others.

How hadn't he noticed the stoop-backed creatures filling their mouths with organs, slurping back entrails and wiping their hands across their faces like messy children? Rhapscallion's lips trembled, curled slightly. Disgusting creatures rippling with lean muscles and bony structures, fingers digging and diving and falling back from their smacking lips, slick with blood. He nodded sluggishly when Ethne called for caution, trying to still the tremors of fear quaking through his body. They'd always terrified him. Needlepoint teeth flashing through a mouth so dreadfully wide he thought they'd be able to gobble him up or tear his arm clear off, ripped straight into it's mouth like a whale. He initially stepped in front of Ethne, throwing his arm out wide before fading into a puff of camouflaged ripples. The archers would have to be dealt with quickly, efficiently.

Rhapscallion had found himself lagging behind with Lukas, throwing an invisible grin that flickered in a heated ripple, a desert illusion of sorts. A momentary flash of teeth. He jovially slapped a hand on the mages' back as he leaned precariously forward, limbs bent like curled coils, until he unbound, throwing himself forward with the easy grace of a healthy Halla. His focus strayed across the Seeker's battle trained hawk. Her beautiful wings stretched through the fleeting spots of sunlight, reflecting muted colours and her eyes, most notably, seemed to dictated the outcome of their battle. So peculiar. He'd have to ask Rev about her later – if it was truly a her, Rhapscallion was admittedly not very well educated when it came to the avian variety. He was all about horses. Even if they'd previously disagreed when discussing their course of action, he had to admit that the Seeker was not someone to be trifled with if you were on the opposite spectrum of acquaintances. He would not want to make him his enemy.

His blades flashed through the air. They sang a terribly haunting song. They sliced through the fabric of his stealth as if he were cutting through interwoven sheets of silk, only noticeable if they were focusing their eyes on the location the blood had come from. Where it'd initially thrown it's wide arc. Spurts of blood spattered from errant legs, knees, shins: felling the archer's in a tangled sweep of limbs. Their arrows flashed by him, unaffected. He could still feel them whizzing past, snatching at strands of hair if he wasn't paying enough attention. One barbed arrow scored itself through the collar of his shirt, terrifyingly close to the pulsing veins in his neck. It sent him reeling backwards, tripping clumsily over a corpse. In this moment, his heartbeat heaved into a maddening staccato. His world exploded, or else, it seemed like it did. Billowing clouds of dust swirled everywhere, obscuring the entire landscape. His vision blurred, flashing hot with tears. It swam back in place after a few seconds, when he realized he was no longer on his feet.

Rhapscallion couldn't piece together what had happened. He felt something wet slide across his neck like a snake and pool in the hollow of his collarbone, dripping sluggishly down his chest and blossoming unforeseen colours across his shirt. He touched his fingers there, quickly. Then, dropped them away when he realized they'd come away wet and bright red. Half of his tunic had been sheared away, as if someone had lit a match and burnt half of it – like an unwanted love letter. Pushing himself to his legs, still trembling, Rhapscallion attempted to right himself. His stealth wavered uncertainly, then faltered altogether. When he took a step ahead, trying to circle around one of the remaining rogue's, his legs nearly folded under themselves. The dust became thinner. He could see. He could see.

Then, a snarling face – belonging to a particularly ugly Hurlock – ripped through the remaining cloud of smoke and sand and dirt. It's clawed fingers swiped through the air as Rhapscallion flexed his empty hands.

Where had his blades gone?

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Ethne Venscyath Character Portrait: Dekton Hellas Character Portrait: Solvej Gruenwald Character Portrait: Revaslin "Rev" Fenlen Character Portrait: Kerin Valar Character Portrait: Blathnat Ashling Character Portrait: Lukas Hoffman Character Portrait: Rhapscallion Linnell
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INK

For the most part, the others seemed to be doing well, and perhaps it was foolish of her to assume that they would have needed her assistance so soon. Between the deadly harmony of the three most directly-physical fighters on the field, tearing through the Darkspawn lines with a seamless efficiency so impressive it was a finesse of its own, the shadow-dance and flitting lines of the three rogues, slicing at backs and planting explosives at choke points, or even Lukas, commanding raw kinetic force with an aplomb usually reserved for the most experienced enchanters, the ‘Spawn stood little chance, and Ethne altered her strategy, dispensing her mana a little more freely, the harsh press of stone and the crackling electricity of white lightning the occasional heavy pulse-beat or staccato rasp added to the music of the battlefield.

When Scally was downed, Ethne’s response was immediate. A blast of ice from winter’s grasp flashed from her fingertips and slowed the hurlock’s progess, and a healing spell immediately followed with a sharp flick of her wrist. A stonefist ripped free of her arm, taking the last of her mana with it for now, but she’d have an opportunity to recover, hopefully. It certainly finished the ‘Spawn off, and just in time.

The rhythm was inexorable, and the Darkspawn unable to keep up with its demands. One by one, they fell, and it was then that Ethne understood something: it may well be the case that they were not expected to succeed, but Warden-Commander Malik had given them the best odds he dared simply by putting them together. They were not a perfect unit, but if their prowess here was anything to go by, they had at least the potential to rise to the occasion. It was in the rage fueling Kerin’s axe-swings, the deft precision of Solvej’s spear, the raw feral ferocity of Dekton in either shape. It was the Seeker’s dead-eyed efficiency and the waver in the air as Scally disappeared from her sight. It was in the sheer energy Lukas exuded whilst throwing enemies in every direction and in Blathnat’s graceful blade-swipes.

She had never enjoyed battle, but for once she could understand why others did.

The Seeker appeared then, and spoke to her in Arcanum, handing her a marred piece of wood. The tingle it produced in her fingers upon contact was an almost sickly thing, and the sluggish, smoldering magic in the staff was the furthest thing from her own. Still, a staff was a staff, and for now, it would serve her purposes.

"Gratias mea,” she replied, her own Arcanum smooth and lilting. "Nos loqui post hoc.” She had no idea about what he wished to speak, but now was clearly not the time. Then he was gone, and the other sounds of a fight replaced the voice in her ears.

She cast her eyes back out over the field in enough time to see the last Darkspawn fall beneath Blathnat’s hand, and the relieved smile was only halfway across her face when it vanished as though it had never been there at all. Ethne’s eyes went wide, and her hands were out at her sides as the tremors in the ground began. The terrain was mostly sand, and so she was able to keep her footing, but what in the world…?

A feral roar sounded from somewhere in front of her, and another answered behind. It sounded like no animal she’d ever encountered, or even heard of, and the air became thick with the same kind of wrongness the Darkspawn impressed upon her Fade-sense, and she glanced swiftly at Blathnat.

"You’d best be over here, girl,” the Warden volunteered, whipping a blade through the air to clear most of the residual blood from it.

Approaching the center did seem like a fair idea, as whatever was drawing near appeared to be doing so from all sides, but scarcely was she even ten steps forward before a massive form went barreling straight past her, the wind of its passage knocking her off her feet.

Rolling into a crouch, Ethne noticed two things immediately: firstly, it was perhaps the largest Darkspawn she’d ever seen, and secondly, it was not alone. Three in total, massive, hulking things with wicked black horns curving back from their foreheads over their skulls. No such thing existed in any tome she’d ever read or story she’d heard, and she’d grown up in the most learned country in Thedas.

This was going to require some serious strategy, and she only hoped their skill would hold up against such monstrosities. The first to strike did so at Solvej, aiming a massive fist straight for the Black Templar. The two others seemed inclined to fight Kerin and Dekton, respectively, and Ethne held a healing spell at the tip of her tongue in case one of them was hit.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Dekton Hellas Character Portrait: Revaslin "Rev" Fenlen Character Portrait: Blathnat Ashling
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INK

The others were perhaps daunted, initimidated, or even frightened by the appearance of these three monstrous creatures, but Suicide was none of these things. He was excited, relishing the chance to face such a foe alongside his new brethren. His heart happily pounded within his bared chest, his skin already speckled with darkspawn blood from the beasts he'd already dispacted. His eyes were afire, and the dark grin spread across his face no doubt gave off a certain appearance of... instability. Perhaps one could go so far as to call it madness. But it was what it was. Suicide viewed the arrival of these horned hulks as undoubtedly the best thing that had happened to him all day.

They were not concentrating their efforts, which did not surprise Suicide. Powerful beings such as these often did not work well with others. The first charged at Solvej, the second towards the dwarf, Kerin, and the third hurtled directly towards Suicide, lowering its horns and charging blindly. Realizing full well even a man his size could not stop the force that this thing could bring to bear, Suicide was left with little option but to dive out of the way, slamming into the sand as the creature barreled on by, skidding to a halt and stomping about the dirt when it knew it had run too far. It bellowed in anger at Suicide as he returned to his feet, spraying saliva about the ground.

How to fight such a thing? As a man, he was outmatched. The magic he was familiar was useful for holding enemies in place, or stunning them, but this creature was far too big for him to petrify, or freeze solid. He had no weapons, and was outmatched by far, physically. He'd be torn to pieces if he tried to fight this thing bare-handed, though it would no doubt make for a good campfire story. Bear form was too slow, and though he'd be able to take more punishment that way, he preferred the idea of avoiding the beast's attacks altogether. Wolf form didn't have the required teeth for the job, and his stealth capabilities as a canine were useless at this point. But with the other form... an idea came to him.

He charged the monster head on, roaring with murderous intent, and a slight dose of insanity. It swung a powerful, clawed hand at him, aiming to gore him open from the waist up, but he rolled under the strike and seamlessly shifted into raven form, flying between the creatures legs, pulling up, and taking off into the sky. The beast took a few steps backward, looking around for where its target had gone, growling in frustration. But Suicide had taken off into the air, in a manner that looked oddly like running away...

Blathnat saw what the mage was doing and understood- or at least she understood enough. A wry smile twisted the rogue's face as she slipped into the shadow of steath. Not a preferred skill of hers, but a passable one, when the occasion called for it. With light steps, the Warden flitted to the massive creature's side. "My, my, my... what have they been feeding you boys lately?" Her voice was just loud enough to carry, and the ogre's head snapped in her approximate direction, confusion painted in clumsy, too-wide strokes over its rough-hewn features. Grinning slightly, she shifted postitions just as quietly and whistled, a sharp, piercing sound that mimicked no forest creature.

The ogre, thoroughly confused, turned about again, but the clever rogue was already on the move, leading it 'round and 'round in circles and stopping at random intervals, winking in and out of visibility as she scored its back and sides with innumerable light cuts and teasing, stinging strikes. Occasionally, she would not move to hit, but simply distract. The ogre was slowly but surely being stoked into a red haze of rage that dulled its senses, skewed its perception, and drove it to distraction. She could not do any more substantal damage than this, lest her tactics fall apart, but she was giving an opening to any teammate smart enough to take advantage of it.

A cry of "Keep at it!" could be heard from the Seeker, who chose to use the moments given to him.

When the beasts had first appeared, Rev did not know what to make of them. Though lore spoke of the terrors of the darkspawn, there was almost no mention of the likes of these things. These creature, these monsters, it was as if they were spawned from the Dread Wolf's bowels. They were large, the length of three men. Large horns protruded from their skulls, while knives of teeth sprouted from their jaws. Armor thankfully covered much of the ugly visage. Truly, it was a sickening and frightening sight. What would be the best course of action?

It was an interesting exercise in planning. There were three enemies, all of which were larger than any creature Rev had fought with such a young team. Already the team was divided into three groups by the chance rushes of the beasts. All had a mage, and the leftmost group's mage doubled as a warrior. It seemed that silent strikes were the only thing missing from that team. The other teams seemed well rounded enough, and in any case, this team was the closest.

Surprisingly, the shapeshifter had taken a more agile approach than would be expected from him. He flitted across the sky in the form of a raven. Fenlen pondered as to the mage's tactics. There were several from which he could choose, Rev just hoped he would choose the right one.

Rev whistled a few notes into the air, and Da'mi appeared once more. She was still equipped with her weapons; the fight had ended too abruptly for her to use them. Rev sounded another melody which threw his companion into the air, after the flying mage. With only an uncertain amount of time remaining in the guise of the Warden, the Seeker acted quickly. He loaded two arrows into the quiver of the mechanism on his left arm. Reaching into the various packs about him, he took out a large bundle of rope and fitted it onto the arrows.

The ogre turned and turned, seemingly mesmerized by the footplay of the dark-skinned Warden. The Seeker strafed in time to the intricate dancing that took place before him. When the beast's back was facing him, the elf shot the two arrows, which carried the bundle of rope to the ogre's legs. The arrows changed their course as the rope made contact with the large stumps and spun around and around, eventually lodging themselves in the sides of the creature. Though the ogre was now tied, there was no pretense that the ropes would hold long. It was just another tactic used to confuse the beast, and hopefully trip it.

The shapeshifter's tactics remained unchanged. Blathnat's approach was just what he needed, something to distract the beast and further confuse it. He wasn't even aware that they had another assisting them from afar, but that was because he was rather focused on the enemy before him, and avoiding any unecessary contact with its fists or horns. One misstep and he would end up a little, crushed, bloody pile of hollow bones and black feathers.

He flew relatively low, circling not five feet above the massive darkspawn's head, watching the rogue slice away at it, causing little damage, but thoroughly confusing and frustrating it. He waited for the right moment, waiting for the ogre to make a strike at her. When it did, he dove sharply towards its face, making sure to avoid the horns, and sinking his talons directly into the darkspawn's eyes, cutting deep. In a flash he ripped outwards, knowing that if he did not entirely remove the eyes of the beast, he would severely damage them, certainly to the point of uselessness for the fight.

And there came the fists. It instinctively reached up to cover its face and smash the pesky bird tearing at its eyesight. Suicide flapped madly upwards, dodging death by mere inches, and leaving perhaps a few second window for another in which the ogre would expose its throat or other vital areas.

Incredibly frustrated and riddled with small wounds, as well as two considerably-larger ones where its eyes used to be, the ogre tore at its remaining frustrations, swatting ineffectually at the bird and subsequently abandoning the effort Two arrows were lodged very loosely in its legs, unable to do much to pierce the thick skin there due to their diverted energy. They came out easily, and the blinded creature yanked at the ropes themselves, snapping them with little effort.

The diversion, however, exposed the creature's back to Blathnat, who had easily receded into stealth while the beast was preoccupied by having its oculars ripped out by tenacious bird-claws. Unfortunately, any hope the ropes would have had of tripping it up was swiftly quashed as the thing stooped. An ice-shard of a smile graced Blathnat's lips then, and she rushed the ogre, jumping with all the considerable strength her legs could lend her. The heady rush of movement she could not stop followed, but hers was no ill-calculated leap, and she landed lightly on the ogre's hunched form, burying one blade to the hilt as close to the neck as she could reach. Before her presence could be registered, she braced her legs against its spine and launched herself off to the side, landing in a roll, only one of her knives currently in her possession.

The attack had missed the spinal cord by mere centimeters, but this meant that rather than being dead or at the very least paralyzed, the behemoth was simply in a great deal of agonizing pain and blind. A good couple of hits would do the trick, but it was getting progressively more violent and reckless, lashing out in all directions and making precise aim rather difficult. "Plans?" she inquired mildly of her comrades.

We plan, now, do we? stuck in the Seeker's throat as he began to speak. "If we can get it on the ground, I could get a clear shot at its eye-socket. Though it may not have much brain to boast of, what little it has we can surely damage. Certainly it will die then. My companion, Da'mi, can help in that endeavor."

He whistled another order, and Da'mi complied. Flying low, shifting from side to side to avoid the flailing arms of the hulking mass, Da'mi drew close and released her explosives. The volley of spiked bombs lodged themselves onto the face of the darkpawn. A great noise blasted from the impact just after the swift hawk left the scene. Her job done, she perched on the shoulder of the sneak-elf, who gave her silent praise.

The explosives, small as they were individually, hooked over the ogre's horns upon release, and before he could dislodge them with a shake of his head, they detonated. The damage itself was relatively minor, due to the protection the black-bone protrostions offered his skull, but it was sufficient to produce a ringing in his ears. Clutching once more at its head, the creature listed to one side, trying to shake off the dizziness that now plagued him. Thoroughly disoriented, the ogre could no longer tell what was going on around it, much less in what state its fellows or its opponents were.

Shifting back into human form in mid air, Suicide fell about seven feet or so to the sand, rolling as he landed, before turning to see the explosion go off, knocking the blinded, wounded ogre into a severely disoriented state. It would not be prepared to defend itself if he were to slam a massive amount of force into it. Thus, he brought his hands together, building a primal energy in the form of stone that pulsed violently, waiting to be unleashed. He waited for the ogre to face him, before releasing the stone, a roar accompanying his attack. The large hunk of stone flew through the air at blistering speeds, slamming into the ogre's skull with a force that a golem would hardly be able to match.

The stonefist smacked bodily into the ogre, knocking it clear off its feet and to the ground in a massive cloud of sand. Blathnat, still smiling grimly, ducked out of the way. Finding herself within feet of the giant's head, the rogue shrugged and closed the distance with rapidity, sliding her remaining knife into its empty right eye socket. That decided it, and the creature gave one last shudder before falling still.

"Well," the duelist pronounced blandly. "That was new."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Ethne Venscyath Character Portrait: Dekton Hellas Character Portrait: Solvej Gruenwald Character Portrait: Revaslin "Rev" Fenlen Character Portrait: Kerin Valar Character Portrait: Blathnat Ashling Character Portrait: Lukas Hoffman Character Portrait: Rhapscallion Linnell Character Portrait: Adalberto Garza
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INK

As Adalberto felt the brackish breeze caress his face, he considered how the world had a way of pulling little jokes on its inhabitants. He didn't know whether to account coincidence, fate, or luck for the stirring turn of events, but he couldn't help be unnerved regardless. It was almost funny, the fact that the potential possible probable end of his career as a Grey Warden would begin with a salty voyage to Orlais, considering the reason he'd become one in the first place was due to that exact same voyage so many years ago. It was unsettling, in a lot of ways. Just the idea seemed too ironic not to serves as grim foreshadowing, but the actual reality of being here- on a ship- ruffled up his feathers and conjured memories he wished he could forget. He was not at peace, that was for sure. He was practically an anxious mess, really, yet it seemed he was just a burly man glaring at the beautiful sky for whatever reason. Probably thinking about anchors and beans- you know, all that manly stuff.

He left the railing and clomped to the center of the ship, lacking all elegance whatsoever. Malik had him waiting here on the ship for his future companions- Berto assumed it to be because he had a past with such settings- and the crew had proved to be quite the characters. Berto liked them rather a lot but they...

Well, frankly, they sort of scared him.

Berto would have probably been intimidated by strangers just due to the fact that he'd be making a first impression (Man, did he hate those. There were plenty more to be made in the near future, too!) but the Captain and his... er, babysitter... were both so commanding. He spotted Jack and cautiously, oh so cautiously, squirmed his way over to her. He cleared his throat again once she was close enough, shifting his eyes from side to side underneath his furrowed brows. Was it... was it getting hot in here? "Er, ah..." he began, voice a deep bass that resounded even as he murmured, Just be cool, Berto. Be normal. These are friends. Just... just speak. he ordered himself, a deep frown forming on his face as he thought. "Jack," he began again, locking eyes with her now, Was that... was that weird? Does my voice sound weird right now? Am I allowed to call her Jack or is that just reserved for her frien- "when, ah... when will we be leaving?" he sputtered, the question finally trickled out into the air. He had his arms crossed over his chest and his stance wide, yet a droplet of nervous sweat trailed down his forehead. Berto was a lot like a walking contradiction.

Jack leaned bodily against the mainmast, chewing on a dried date and trying not to think about how irritated she was with the Captain right now. Swallowing, she let her eyes fall half-lidded as the rest of the crew scurried about, making preparations for departure. They'd sailed into this nameless, woebegone port yesterday, and frankly she was glad to be leaving. Not even any wenches to be had in the sad-sack town, and was it wrong to want to sail to Orlais for no other reason than the whores?

Probably.

Not that she cared much, mind. Reaching into her burlap sack, he pawed around for another date and frowned. Empty. Andraste's ass, it figures. Huffing softly, for she was not typically an emotive person, much unlike the captain, she tossed the sack to a cabin boy and jerked her head towards the entrance to the galley. They could reuse that.

Ponderous footsteps, slower than any sailor worth his salt, heralded the approach of their civilian passenger, and Jack's left eyebrow climbed her browned forehead with admirable tenacity. His speech was as slow and awkward as his gait, but for all that, he knew how to move with a vessel at sea. "That's a question for the Captain, laddie." Her eyes flicked to the bow of the ship, and she raised a hand to her temple, massaging with the air of one long used to ardent migraines.

The Captain, shaggy-haired and wild-eyed, was standing at the fore of the ship, and for the love of the Maker, he was wearing a bloody cape Long, red, and swishy, which was doubtless top-notch for the dramatic whip-back of the wind but completely useless for everything else. She shouldn't be surprised anymore; at least he'd abandoned his recent fetish for hats with enormous feathers. "Oy, Rhuddy! When the hell 're we movin'? That pickup job ain't gonna take care of itself!"

Captain Bryland looked back over his shoulder at the pair of them, and Maker save them all, he was grinning. Never a good sign if you were Jack, because it meant he was up to something. "Never fear, my lady love! We shall depart this place at once, and sail to where destiny awaits us!" Jack rolled her eyes as the captain held up a single hand and snapped his fingers.

Apparently, he'd drilled the entire crew on this ridiculous display beforehand, for at that single signal, the mainsail unfurled and the helmsman spun them eastward, the ship pulling out of the bay with standard snapping proudly in the breeze. Jack closed her eyes and counted to five, slowly. Opening them again, she gave Berto a sidelong glance. "Just... ignore him. He's always like this, and no, it never stops."

The NPC Dossier has been updated.



Unsure exactly how many parties were injured in the wake of the attack, Ethne played it safe and cast a group heal. It was rapidly becoming obvious, however, that for at least one of their number, this would not be sufficient.

Solvej was laying prone on the sand, next to the body of the beast that she and Lukas had felled. From the angle of one of her legs, Ethne knew there was at least a full break. She could only hope that the bone was not completely shattered. If the woman’s ragged breathing was anything to judge by, chances were she had more than a few injured ribs as well. “Okay. Keep as still as you can, Ser Solvej. Anyone else who is injured, please have a seat; I’ll be with you as soon as I am able.”

Okay. Ethne stilled, bringing herself into the Fade. The scenery around her, no longer bound to the laws of ordinary perception, took on the faint appearance of bleeding watercolors, fogged at the edges. She must be tired, if it was this difficult to see clearly. At least she could spot what she was looking for. Several Fade spirits, blue-white in color and soothing in aura, were at her side nearly immediately, and each laid a hand on her shoulder or her crown. Mercy, Patience, and Compassion. Vitality and Love weren’t around, but the three currently present would suffice. She could also feel the rumblings of demons- close, but held at bay by her friends for now.

As spirit healers were trained to do, Ethne opened herself up to the foreign magic, channeling it as though it were her own. The soothing warmth rushing over her skin smoothed away her own trivial injuries nearly instantaneously, but Solvej was going to require much more work than that. Luckily, the woman’s leg had only snapped in one place. Taking the limb in both hands, Ethne set it as gently as possible, murmuring quiet phrases in Arcanum perhaps as much for her own comfort as the Templar’s. The magic knit the bone together, then repaired the blood vessels and muscle around it. The limb might be a bit tender for a while, but it was perfectly useable.

The woman’s ribs were a mess; one had come dangerously close to puncturing a lung, and there was still heavy internal bleeding. It took the elf about ten minutes to put the arrangement to rights, and she wobbled slightly when she closed off the flow of magic and stood. “I hope that was enough magic moonbeams,” she told Lukas, the barest of smiles appearing for just a moment.

Of course, her work was not done, and she insisted on seeing any other injured parties before she backed off. Scally definitely needed some more work, but he was nowhere near as badly-off as Solvej, and it took her half the time. Between her two earlier spells, Kerin was almost good as new, but a couple of her ribs were still bruised, so Ethne dealt with that, too. The woman’s mangled axe, she could do nothing about.

“Ah. There we go!” The soft exclamation belonged to Blathnat, who had surreptitiously wandered away from the others, being uninjured herself, and found what they’d come for. The cache, for all it was worth, had a rather poor locking mechanism. Inside the oblong trunk, she found a sizeable pouch of sovereigns, several knives of various makes, one which she took for herself, a simple bladed staff, and one rather large, double-headed axe. The coins, she handed to Solvej, the staff to Ethne, and the axe to Kerin. The rest, she didn’t much care about, as she’d managed to recover one of her own blades from the dead creature without difficulty, so she left the other rogues to sort out who got what.

[b]Level Up!
The Mission Briefings have been updated.



The group was soon once again on their way to the rendezvous point. The half-day of travel passed without notable incident, and it was on the evening of the day after they departed that Blathnat’s sharp eyes first picked out the ship on the horizon.

It was a grander ship than any Ethne had ever seen, though admittedly, that wasn’t saying much. The polished wood gleamed in the ocean spray, four masts rising proudly to challenge the clouds overhead. The standard was red and black, as Malik had promised, the emblem upon it resembling a bird in flight. The group drew up to the shore and waited as the massive vessel slid expertly in parallel to the small sliver of beach. They were even now just skirting the edges of the forest, and most of the sand had given way to rocky drop-offs.

A large board- a gangplank- descended from the side of the ship, thudding dully onto the sand. Two men and a woman climbed down. The first man was dressed in the garb of an ordinary sailor, and immediately began boarding the horses and the cart. The woman had a no-nonsense, hawkish look about her, as though she were always keenly watching something. The set of her mouth gave nothing away of her thoughts for the group or their task, but her eyes flicked back to the second man every couple of seconds.

Ethne was frankly in awe of this fellow. Tall (though not enough to rival Dekton) he nevertheless had a presence about him that demanded attention. The black leathers and linens, stitched with his own crest, probably helped, as did the impressive-looking crimson cape that rested on his shoulders. The grey and white osprey perched with dignity on his shoulder seemed to eye them almost as keenly as the woman did. The knives at either hip were of the finest make, if one knew anything about smithing, and the scars bisecting his left eye and the right side of his mouth spoke of a great deal of past trouble.

In marked contrast to his imposing stature, his hair was shaggy and his face set into what could only be described as a trickster’s grin. “Ah, and here they are! Welcome, adventurers, Wardens, and seekers of most indelicate fortune, to the Scarlet Tide. I am Captain Bryland, King of Pirates, and this lovely creature is Anthea Jaconelli, the most astute first mate a man could ask for.” He swept a low bow, somehow not dislodging his osprey, but the one called Anthea only snorted and rolled her eyes.

“Don’t mind the captain. You’re free to call him Rudhale, and I’m just Jack, thanks. Well, time’s a-wastin’, and you lot have to get to Orlais, so climb aboard.”

Looking for all the world like a reprimanded child, pout and all, the Captain shook his head and waved them onto the gangplank, leading the way up with an easy grace that gave the lie to his bombastic demeanor.

One, however, did not follow. ”Malik needs to know about those… things,” Blathnat put in with certainty. “And that story’s going to take more than a letter to tell. If there are more where those came from, Kirkwall might be in for a surprise. There’s another Warden aboard this ship; consider him my replacement. Try not to die, girls and boys.”

Ethne couldn’t say she was pleased to see the woman leave, but she admitted that Blathnat had a point, and so followed the sailors up the gangplank with only a nod. The helmsman turned the ship shortly after the gangplank was withdrawn, and their voyage to Orlais was underway.

The Codex has been updated.



Chapter One: Morpheus, The Dreamweaver
"The first of their foes lay waiting in Orlais, a Darkspawn of greater intelligence than the average man, and no mean power. Unbeknownst to any among them, much of Val Royeaux was at that time held under its insidious sway. In order to survive the fight, however, they would first have to endure a challenge almost as great: surviving each other."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Ethne Venscyath Character Portrait: Dekton Hellas Character Portrait: Solvej Gruenwald Character Portrait: Kerin Valar Character Portrait: Blathnat Ashling Character Portrait: Rhapscallion Linnell
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INK

"The hell did this happen?" Kerin asked outloud as she rubbed her chest. She knew that a couple of ribs had snapped and were jostling around in her, but now the only thing she felt was a little bit of tenderness and bruising. Still, she was breathing heavily, and her axe was embedded in the thigh of the monsterous ogre next to her. Once she was satisfied that bones weren't floating around in her chest cavity, she patted the leather hide of the ogre as a hunter would to a prized game animal. A bloody grin splayed across her face, she taunted the dead creature, "Well big boy, you're way too big to bury. I'm sorry I can't hold up my promise." She then grabbed her axe and ripped it free.

Her grin was shot all to hell. The head of the axe was massively dented and the top quarter of one of the blades was completely missing. Chips and cracked etched all through the axehead. It functioned more like a blunt device more than a hacking one. The only reason it was able to dig into the monster at all was the force of all of Kerin's anger behind every swing. The same anger that was beginning to well up inside once more. "You nugfucking son of a bitch! You broke my damn axe!" She yelled giving one last chop with the axe before storming away, her grin replaced by a scowl.

She approached as Ethne was playing healer. That would explain why her ribs weren't swimming around in her lungs, but the sight of all of the injuries reminded her of the blood she spat up moments ago. She walked towards the group rubbing the dried blood from her mouth. She did a poor job as crimson flakes still remained at the corners of her mouth, but she would worry about that later. Ethne was busy tending to a mangled looking Solvej, but if the Twig-bean could heal broke bones during battle, Kerin had enough faith to believe that she could heal the Warden.

Once Ethne finished up with Solvej and moved on to Rhapscallion, Kerin took this time to poke a little fun at the Warden. "Isn't that spear of yours supposed to keep enemies at a distance?" She said with a half cocked grin. "Last I checked, getting grabbed does not count as 'Keeping your distance'," Kerin teased. Though it may have been blunt, Kerin had taken a liking to the Warden. This was her way of showing it. By that time, Ethne had finished with Rhapscallion and began to harass her about healing.

"Dammit Twig-bean, I told you, I'm fine! Go see to someone else!" Despite her protests, Kerin allowed her to dispense what little healing she wanted too. It was one battle wasn't going to win. She turned to the other Warden's, Blathnat, exclamation and grabbed the axe that was handed to her. "That's a bit of luck, isn't it?" Kerin said, holding both axes in her hand and looking at each. Either way, the new axe was in better shape so she tossed the old one. Now all she needed was her helmet. She spent the next moments searching for it and once she had found it, they left the battlefield, the blood of the Darkspawn bathing the sand in taint.




While she was unshakable in the presence of the Darkspawn and Ogres, the sight of the ship lazily rocking on the shore inspired dread in the heart of the dwarf. The head that was held high during the battle now sunk into her shoulders and her fiery steel eyes turned dark. While she was afraid of no mortal being, the water was did not bleed, it did not die, and could not be frightened. She hated the water, and she hated the floating coffins they called boats. Her sudden dejected demeanor was obvious to all those around her-- all they need was to look at her.

Kerin hesitated at the gangplank, the gate to her own personal hell. The appearance of the pirate and his first mate completely escaped her notice, as she was too busy talking herself into crossing that border. She needed to get on to that ship in order to continue this journey. If she did not find the courage then her companions would fight this battle by themselves. Kerin did not want to do that to them, she wanted to fight, but in order to do that, she had to cross the gangplank. She looked up to her companions with an expression on her face closest to fear, looking for some kind of support. She really did not want to get on that blasted boat...

But she forced one heavy boot on the lip of the plank. Then another step. And another. Her eyes were closed and she was imagining herself walking down the solid hallways of Orzammar. Those grand hallways would never give out, and they wouldn't break and send her to a watery grave. No, she was safe her. All she needed was a few more steps... And she was on the deck of the ship.

It began to rock. She froze like a frightened nug. It was no denying it now, she was on the ship. The solid ground beneath her had turned into a couple of wooden boards. They were the only thing between her and the watery hell below. Kerin then moved-- or rather ran-- to the nearest, most solid object she could find. The mast. There she sat and wrapped her legs around it along with her arms. The rocking was still there, but at least the threat of falling overboard was no longer an issue. The thought of what she looked like to her companions came to mind...

"If any of you so much as bloody chuckle, I will murder you the next time we hit land, and I'll make it look like a bloody accident!" She warned.

Without much fanfare, the ship left the shore (much to Kerin's dismay) and began the weeks long journey to Orlais. Kerin watched in sorrow as the solid land began to shrink before her eyes. It was a sad sight, but she stayed clutched to the mast. Now that the journey was under way, the only thing left to do was to finish it.

Before long, she was joined on deck by one certain Dekton Hellas, Suicide... She could only imagine what she looked like to the large man.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Ethne Venscyath Character Portrait: Dekton Hellas Character Portrait: Solvej Gruenwald Character Portrait: Kerin Valar
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INK

The shapeshifter was in a state of something remarkably similar to bliss. He was grinning darkly as he surveyed the crushed, ruined bodies of darkspawn, bandits, and these three massive creatures that had valiantly attempted to turn them into smears on the ground. It had been a brutal and bloody fight against a worthy enemy, surrounded by allies that, so far, seemed very much worth fighting alongside. Suicide couldn't remember the last time he'd enjoyed a day like this.

The woman who had armed herself with a spear seemed to have not fared so well, however, lying in a heap as she was. The healer quickly set to work on her. Suicide had a feeling she would pull through. She had seemed certain her Path would end here, but Suicide had not been so sure. She was a capable warrior. She had a purpose here. She would carry on. It was not her time yet.

Seeing as he was not in need of healing, Suicide began to search around the battlefield, eventually finding an intact staff still in the grip of the darkspawn emissary who had wielded it. It was a vicious and crude looking weapon, but made of a sturdy, if blackened, wood staff. One end was adorned with a lovely looking spiked ball that would serve as an excellent mace, while the other was fashioned with a crude, but sharp blade. He had never actually wielded a mage's staff before. The other mages he had encountered typically did, though. Perhaps he should try it. He ripped it from the darkspawn's grasp, feeling an electrical energy pulsing along its length. It would do.

"The Path led us to an excellent battle. We are better for it," the shapeshifter commented upon returning to the group. They soon left for the ship, Dekton choosing to remain in his human form, and walk with the others.




The seas did not daunt the shapeshifter, though he had scarcely experienced them before. There was little to fear from water when one could simply turn into a bird at a moment's notice, and put as much distance between themselves and the water as they wished. He had thought of spending the hours as a raven, at least for a while, but he remembered that he had done this already. The battles of the day had proven to Suicide that these people were indeed meant to accompany him along the Path, and as such, it demanded he speak with them about... various things. The actual fighting was only the half of it.

Making his way onto the deck, thumping the spiked end of his new staff into the deck as he walked, to the displeasure of the crew, Suicide peered over the side. The waters rushed below them, violent and beautiful. The occasional spray of water left him more or less glistening, though he did not mind. Nothing here was so cold as the Wilds had been.

He eventually turned away from the sea, to find a peculiar sight: the dwarf, Kerin, the berserker as she had been referred to, was... hugging the mast? Her arms and legs were wrapped around it as though she would perish should she let go. Suicide titled his head slightly at her, before taking a few steps towards her, and crossing his arms over his chest, attempting to understand. The Path took him to peculiar encounters, sometimes. Perhaps something would come of this that he could not yet see.

"What are you doing?" he asked with an entirely straight face, not seeming to find humor in Kerin's position, but rather appearing to simply want to undersand what he was looking at.

"Trying to make the boat stop swaying," Kerin answered in complete deadpan. "As you can tell, it's not working," She finished. The act of just speaking these words sent her stomach into knots which were jerked about by the waves slapping the hull of the boat. Her face turned green and she reached for her helmet beside her, which she then unceremoniously vomitted in. Finished expelling what little food she had eaten, she wiped her chin and set the helmet back down in close reach. She was bound to need it again soon. She hated the water.

She looked up to Suicide with weariness on her face. Despite the trip only starting, she was wishing it was over. Then she answered the why. "Have you seen a dwarf swim? Yeah.... Neither have I. We don't get many ponds down in the slums of Orzammar," she said in her typical blunt manner. "I don't see how you all can handle this rocking, and the water... But especially the rocking. Actually living out on the blasted sea?" She said, pointing at the pirates around them, "They must be insane."

"And they must think the dwarves insane," Suicide countered, "to live their lives without seeing the surface, let alone something like the sea." Suicide glanced around at the pirates as Kerin pointed vaguely towards them. "I cannot yet understand why one would live upon an empty expanse such as this, but if they find fulfillment in this life, then it is their Path, and they are right to follow it."

He shrugged. "Personally, I suspect I am not bothered because I can grow wings if I wish. The water holds no threat for one who can fly." The shapeshifter then decided to take another step forward, and take a seat, perhaps five feet from the dwarf, his darkspawn staff resting across his criss-crossed legs. "You fought well against the darkspawn and the others," he commented, changing the subject. "I expect we will encounter greater battles further along the Path. I will be glad to have such a warrior beside me in the bloodshed."

"Heh, thanks for that. Believe or not, I wasn't always this warrior," Kerin said, "I used to be quite the little duster. Scrounging around the heels of the higher castes for scraps to get through the day-to-day. Well. Used to. It turned out that life wasn't in my Path. My Path had a lot more blood in store for me... A lot more." She said in a hint of a wistful tone. It must have been the combination of the sea and rocking that made her talk like this.

Yet, there that word was again. The Path. Honestly, Kerin didn't fully understand the phrase that Suicide used. It was a curious thing, the way he spoke of it. She tilted her head and asked the inevitable question. "Hey, what is the Path anyway? You speak of it as if it's destiny. Fate," She said with a squint, trying to read the large man. As she asked her question her hand unconsciously went to the brand on her face. It had been a long time since she talked to anyone about fate. In fact, the last person she probably talked about it with was her brother...

Suicide had heard enough about the dwarven caste system to know that it disgusted him. They tried to determine the fates of their kind by birth. They were fools. Everyone had to find their fate for themselves. Those that submitted to such a system, and believed their fates were chosen for them, were truly blind to the Path. From what Kerin said, however, Suicide could be reasonably sure that she was not as blind as others of her kind.

"Forgive me if I make incorrect assumptions about your life," Suicide began, "but it sounds as though you follow your Path already. You see that the life your supposed betters deigned you fit for will not provide any meaning, and so you turn away from it. You seek something that gives you purpose, you make your actions have meaning. You seek out your Path. Your fate is not something that others can explain to you, but something that you must find. It is..."

He frowned slightly. The only other person he had spoken of this to was the Warden-Commander, and it was a difficult concept to put into words. "The Path is a feeling, more than anything else. A feeling that you are satisfied with your life and how you are living, enough so that should your death come upon you, you will not regret, you will not wonder what other roads you could have traveled. You are doing what you decide you are meant to do. We cannot know where the Path ends, should we find it. We can only know that when it does end, it will be our choice. We chose to follow the Path, and thus chose its end, a death that completes us."

He fell silent, holding Kerin's gaze for a moment, before looking down at the staff he'd acquired. Perhaps she would understand, perhaps she would not. He could sense that she was willing to search for the Path, but he could not tell if she was willing to accept it.

Suicide didn't even need to finish the statement. Kerin knew exactly what the man was talking about. She nodded along in understanding, she knew his words echoed her own heart. "Freedom. To decide for myself. To choose my own Path. I suppose I did know about the Path. This brand says I don't exist, that the Stone has forsaken me. We have a score of bodies behind us that tells a different story and hundreds more ahead of us that will come to the same end. True, I don't know where the Path leads... But I choose how to to travel it," she said in acknowledgement... Then her face turned green and she reached for her helmet once more.

When she sat her helmet down feeling a bit lighter she grunted. "I just bloody wish it didn't take me over the sodding sea. That was something I could do without," she complained. "You and I are not so different Suicide," she added, wiping her mouth. "Next time we're in a town-- If I survive that long-- I'll buy the first round, aye?" She said. As it stood, she doubted she could even hold a pint of liquor, much less enjoy it. She ventured a glance at the man once more. She wondered what kind of life would lead to the concieved notion of a path. Much like hers perhaps? Or was it similiar, but completely different as well. She didn't know anything about the Chasind people. Were they as free as the notion of the path led her to believe?

Such curious people, these surfacers. Though she found herself more kin to them than her own people.

"If the Path leads us there, then so it shall be," Suicide said with a hint of a smile. He was glad to have found someone of a similar mindset. Yet another sign that this was where he was meant to be.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Ethne Venscyath Character Portrait: Dekton Hellas Character Portrait: Kerin Valar
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INK

The Chasind shapeshifter had been standing at the bow of the ship for the better part of an hour, watching the sun come up in the early morning. It was quite a sight to witness from the sea. The way the fiery orange reflected off the waters ahead, but it was almost more of a feeling than anything. A feeling of something on the horizon. The feeling of the morning air against his skin, warm by his standards, but of course, Suicide came from a land where frozen tundra was considered normal, where it was a good day if the freezing rain came lashing straight down rather than sideways. The ship heaved gently on the waves beneath his feet, and though it was a new experience for him, he didn't react in the way Kerin had. It was exhilarating, to experience something he had never felt before. Like a new door opening before him. The Path was nothing if one did not occasionally stop to enjoy the sights.

There was also another reason Suicide had come here, though. He thumped the mace end of his darkspawn staff into the wood of the ship, as though that might make it more willing to display its power for him. It seemed a decent enough weapon. Versatile, at least. He could bash in a darkspawn's skull with the mace end, skewer one with the blade end. He would also be able to blast away at foes from a distance... if he could just figure out the trick. He could feel the magic inside of it, like lightning coursing underneath a thick stone, present, and powerful, but out of his reach. It made him frown at it, as though the staff denying him power was a personal affront, and that it should be intimidated into serving him if nothing else.

Though he would of course not speak of this to the Seeker, or probably the Templar-woman, power was not something Suicide shied away from. In fact, he actively sought it out. So long as the power's price did not impede his ability to live his life as he saw fit, there was simply no reason he should not acquire it. Possibilities opened with power that were closed to the weak. Thankfully, this did not extend to the realm of blood magic. The amplification of his power in such a way was tempting indeed, but to work with a demon so would restrict him in ways he was not willing to accept. This staff, however, was no threat to him. It was simply denying him another method by which he could dispatch his enemies, and he meant to pry it out one way or another.

Judging simple experimentation to be the best method for drawing its power out, Suicide began to thrust the staff forward, slash it horizontally, squeeze it with varying levels of intensity, flip it over and try it again, for a few minutes. More than once he accidentally smacked the mace end against the ship, only to receive rather dark looks from those attending the ship. It wasn't as though they really were going to do anything about him. He'd slept in the hold as a bear the last night, after all. Of everyone on board, Suicide was perhaps the most physically imposing, and outright dangerous looking, if only for how he seemed to embody the spirit of the Wilds from which he originated.

Getting impatient with the staff, Suicide spun in a rather graceful circle, snarling, before slamming the mace end of the staff into the deck. A small blast of lightning exploded before him, arcing up in front of his face, the force generated knocking him back onto his rear and sending him sliding a few feet before he skidded to a halt. He looked at the staff in surprise for a few seconds before erupting into laughter, a deep, growling chuckle that coupled with Kerin's laughter, still at the mast as she was, Suicide's laugh carrying a sense of pure amusement.

With each knot drawing them ever closer to their destination, Ethne's dreams grew increasingly troubled. Never mind that she, unlike most, was in full control of herself and much of her environment during them, for in the end, this only seemed to be making it worse. Desire and Pride pulled at her constantly, attempting to lure her with sweet, honeyed promises of the power she needed to achieve her aims, the power to protect the others, and the peaceful end she sought, the lovely piece of a golden world that she'd set aside for herself in the center of all her aspirations. She'd confessed that small thing to Scally, which meant it was now more than fair game for the beasts that tormented her when her spirit slipped into the Fade. Oh, but if only she were as inured as Kerin, or as strong-willed as proud Solvej!

But if she were, she'd be no use to the cause at all. So she'd done what she always did: focused her mind down to a single stream of thoughts and summoned them to her, those little pieces of happiness that she held close, her assurances that she needed nothing other than what she had, and perhaps Mercy had seen her and sighed knowingly, helping the fledgling summon her sanctuary to her until her dreams were fields of flowers and laurel crowns and happy songs on distant breezes. Either way, she rolled from her cot as nautical dawn encroached on the darkness outside, aware of the time even if she couldn't see the light. Setting herself to rights, she thought wistfully of days when hot baths were easy to obtain and she'd never been for wont of fresh clothes, but this was better and she knew it. A cage, however gilt and beautiful, was still a cage, and the glitter wore away to stark iron everywhere but nostalgia anyway.

Taking staff to hand, the mage picked her way around sleeping bodies, comrades and sailors alike, and ascended the stairs to the deck above. She was about halfway up when she heard a rather impressive thud, and alarm pulled her eyebrows aloft before the sound was joined by rolling laughter. Now more confused than concerned, she pushed open the door at the top of the stairs and squinted against the bare light for a few seconds before her eyes adjusted. Sunrise was scarcely half-begun, but it was so dark down below that her pupils had dilated considerably, it seemed.

Outside, she was met with a rather puzzling sight: the first thing she noted was that Kerin was still at the mast, likely having slept in just such a fashion. What was perhaps slightly odder still was the fact that Dekton was seated as well, not against anything in particular, but rather in a sprawling fashion, and also laughing. Still, if it was a surprise, it was not an unpleasant one, and she grinned without needing to know the reason. "Good morning," she greeted the both of them amicably. "It seems I've missed the fun."

"Hardly," the shapeshifter said, maintaining his grin as he rose to his feet. "I may end up blasted on my arse several more times before I figure out how to tame this thing." He tapped the sturdy wood of his darkspawn staff, before thumping it lightly on the deck. He seemed pleased by the weapon, even though most would no doubt be put off, or even repulsed, by the thought of wielding such a wicked looking tool, one that had no doubt taken the lives of many innocents over its life. Emissaries were no common troops among the spawn. But Suicide seemed to have no qualms whatsoever about using one's tool for murder.

"I have actually never used one before," he commented, shrugging. "The only other mage among my former clan was an old crone. As far as I was aware, her staff was nothing more than a simple walking stick. I certainly never witnessed the power of the elements being cast forth from it." He smiled to himself slightly, recalling the old woman. Hardly able to cast a spell without breaking a bone, and yet she still taught him the things he would need to know to survive on his own as a mage. The wild taught him the rest, once he came to know it like few others did. It was a rather sad thought. The crone had not lasted long when the warband had found them. In fact, she hadn't resisted whatsoever. She had seen the end of her Path, and met it with a smile.

"Never used..." Ethne trailed off, a fair shade of disbelief coloring her tone before she reconsidered and shook her head slowly. No, perhaps it made sense. What need would someone like Dekton have for a staff? Shapeshifting magics were an art unto themselves. Why bother with a simple piece of wood when one's whole being was a weapon, anyway? It was nothing like they taught in Tevinter, what the Chasind could do. The small woman looked first at her feet on the smooth wood of the deck and then at the smooth steel implement in her own hand, apparently pondering something, if the way she chewed her bottom lip was anything to go by.

There was no mistaking the fact that, try as she might to be otherwise, she was afraid of him. It wasn't his fault, really, it was just that he was very large and very male and very much not of her world. Ethne had been quite well-conditioned to fear all of those things, to varying extents, and overcoming those instinctive barriers was an accomplishment that came only with time and ample justification. But... that didn't make it acceptable to refrain from assisting if she could. "Um." A small pause, and she collected herself before smashing headlong into that first mental roadblock. "I can, well... I might be able to help, that is." She chanced a glance upward, well-aware that even at this distance, she had to crane her neck somewhat to meet his eyes. The humor of the previous few moments had been enough to banish her reservations for just a little while, but this was considerably more serious, and once again, she was conscious of how far out of her element she was. If her allies could intmidate her so, her enemies had half the task completed before they even began.

Suicide's face brightened once more at Ethne's mention of help. "Indeed? I would be most glad for any assistance you can offer me." His tone was serious, but certainly not unfriendly. Typical fare for the shapeshifter, really. He picked up on the fact that the girl was intimidated by him to some degree. After all, it was not the first time he had evoked such a reaction from younger and physically smaller individuals. That said, he wasn't really sure what the best way to put her at ease would be. He wasn't capable of making himself smaller while remaining in human form, after all, and he was quite incapable of conversing with her if he changed into his wolf, bear, or raven forms. It was debatable if his wolf and bear forms were any less scary, actually. Although, fur did tend to help matters. If Suicide was any judge, he would make for quite a magnificent pelt in some noble's house.

"The Seeker dealt with the Emissaries before I could study them much, and as such, I have had little to go on. I have been experimenting since first light, but I have only just produced any kind of force. The staff has the power of storms within it, I can feel that much, but I am blind as to how to bring it forth, or give it direction." He left out that he had woken so early because... well, sleeping in the company of others was still something he was getting used to. He'd spent years alone in the wild, finding caves to claim as his own in bear form, places where he alone was king. Here, there were dozens within a few steps of him.

His only choice had been to sleep as a bear. Only that way did he trust himself to sleep, as he had figured the crew would not be eager to bother a sleeping giant with wicked claws and teeth that could crush their bones with little effort. He also just simply slept deeper as a bear, for some reason. The shapeshifter still remembered that one glorious occasion in which he had eaten far more than usual one day before winter, gone to sleep in his cave, and woken up in spring.

In truth, probably without intending to, Dekton had presented Ethne with one of very few situations in which she'd be able to lay her misgivings aside: a quandary, involving a subject she actually knew something about. Peering at his staff, she decided it was not so very different from the one she'd used temporarily the other day after hers had broken. The magic had felt sickly to her, but that might well have been her natural aversion to the source than anything, and she suspected the problem lay elsewhere. It was almost funny, how different their educations must have been; the very nature of a stave made it an idea tool for teaching younglings without quite enough development to summon recognizable spells on their own. As a result, it was one of the first things any mage in Tevinter learned how to do.

"Well," she offered kindly, "From the way you talk about it, it sounds as though you expect the staff itself to produce the lightning. That's... well, it's technically true, I suppose, but misleading." How best to explain? It had all been very intuitve to her, in the way she supposed changing shape to mimic wild things must have been intuitive to him. Putting such concepts into words was difficult by nature. Huffing softly, she gave it a try anyway.

"It's like... hm. When you're a bear, you scratch things, right? It's like that. The staff will technically do the magic, like your claws do the, er... scratching. But really, you have to put the power and direction behind it, like your whole body does when you scratch or fly or what have you. Treat it like part of your body. A little bit of raw energy will do the trick; the wood is enchanted to do the rest." Unsure if the explanation even made sense, she leveled her own over the railing on the boat and swished it just a bit, launching a shard of ice into the ocean. "I suppose it's more a finesse thing than a strength thing," she mused thoughtfully, rocking back on her heels. "Which is probably a good thing for me, anyway. Try again and see what happens?"

Like a part of his body. That Suicide could understand. More so than anyone else in this group, he fought with weapons that were a part of him. Although, he personally would not have used the word scratch. It was so... pitiful. Suicide ripped, tore, shredded, or rended. He did not scratch. That was something a cub would do. It sounded almost playful. Word choice aside, however, and her explanation had made some degree of sense to him. The staff was not literally attached to his body, but he had to think of it as an extension of its being in order to draw its power forth, and to give it direction.

He wondered just how much mages like herself understood about the magic he could perform. Surely she could not recreate it. She had not lived in the wild as he had, she had not come to understand the bear, the wolf, the raven enough to assume their forms. But he was no doubt not the first to do so; perhaps it was documented somewhere. She seemed to have a decent grasp of things, from the way she had explained the staff. This puny little girl had proved her worth several times over already. Not to mention she was the reason he currently had direction. He would see to it that she did not end up a stain on the wall in Val Royeaux.

Finesse. Wolf and raven had taught him enough of that for him to understand. He did not always wish to emulate the bear, after all. He relaxed his grip on the handle of the staff somewhat, and thought of it as though it were his claws, his wings. Or perhaps his tail. As a wolf, it tended to act without his knowledge. A part of him that served a function without him thinking about it. Yes, perhaps that was the best way to think of it. He checked that he had sufficient room about him, before taking the staff in both hands and swinging forward, not thinking about the exact motion, but rather letting his subconscious do the work. There was a hiss as the electricity snaked forth from the weapon's tip, straight and true. He roared in approval.

"And there it is!" he said with a satisfied grin, before firing off several more blasts. His precision was lacking, the arcs of lightning not following the same path with each shot, but it was certainly progress. "It seems I was thinking too much about it, when it is a far more natural and instinctive process than I expected." He then turned to Ethne and gave her a respectful nod. "You have my thanks. I look forward to turning this tool against its makers in Val Royeaux, at your command. You are worthy of the leadership you have been given."

Ethne, who had never managed to be wholly either detached scholar or speciously-present vitally-involved compatriot, was surprised to find herself more the latter than the former in this moment. Whatever the compulsion that led her to it, she was duly proud of Dekton's easy mastery of what she'd said, and not for the fact that she'd managed to say it in a way that made sense to him. Instead, then, of doing what her own tutors would have done and recording the use of idiom and verse that did the trick, or the approximate trajectory of the result, she bounced up and down on the balls of her feet as the first collection of bolts skidded from the end of the staff and out over the water, cheery smile creeping over her features without her conscious input into the matter. She felt a little bit like clapping, but that would be silly and her staff was still in one of her hands besides.

His own enthusiasm was perhaps infectious, and that might well have been the cause, but the moment he was once again disposed to solemnity, she was turning several progressive shades of red and looking at the deck again. Worthy, was it? That seemed far too strong a word for what she'd just done, but she wasn't about to argue the point. Compliments were lovely things, only those entirely lacking in grace chose to turn aside the kindness demonstrated by contesting them. Modest deflection was one thing, but she wouldn't ever say aloud that she thought him wrong. How impolite that would be!

So instead, she cleared her throat softly and dipped herself into a shallow curtsy, more from habit than anything. "You're most welcome."