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Snippet #2059808

located in Kirkwall, a part of The City of Chains, one of the many universes on RPG.

Kirkwall

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Character Portrait: Sophia Dumar Character Portrait: Ithilian Tael
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“We stand upon the precipice of change. The world fears the inevitable plummet into the abyss. Watch for that moment... and when it comes, do not hesitate to leap. It is only when you fall that you learn whether you can fly.”



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It was busy time in Kirkwall, the City of Chains. Though fortunately untouched by the Blight that had sprung up from the Korcari Wilds before being decisively defeated at Denerim by the Hero of Ferelden and her gathered army, Kirkwall has still suffered ill effects due to simple proximity. Thousands of Ferelden citizens took ship and sailed away from their homeland while the war was still in doubt, many of them stopping and seeking refuge in the Free Marches, with Kirkwall being the first stop. Many of them have since had their homes destroyed by the darkspawn, and have nowhere to return to. Those that could work their way into the city before it shut its doors have since taken shelter in Darktown, or if they were lucky, the slums of Lowtown.

The memory of what happened to Ferelden’s Circle of Magi is also fresh in the minds of many mages and Templars in the Free Marches. Blood magic, demonic possession, an entire tower overrun by abominations. It has served as yet another reminder to Kirkwall’s Knight-Commander that she must remain vigilant in the face of magic, no matter the cost. Many mages, and quite a few citizens, disagree. The tension between mages and Templars can only rise in the future, and what last remnants of stability remain may soon disappear altogether.

It was also the year in which the Arishok of the Qunari, the supreme military leader of their people, was shipwrecked along with many of his warriors off the Wounded Coast, and left stranded in Kirkwall, while they await a ship to take them back to Par Vollen. They seem content to simply wait in their compound on the docks, and not bother the locals, but the degree to which they have embedded themselves within the city already is
 slightly alarming, to the Viscount if no one else. Already resistance to their presence is building, and racial tensions threaten to flare with time.

Hurtled into the chaos, there are those that fight, and the world will shake before them. Whether it is fate or chance will be left to them to decide. These are the stories of the individuals who left their mark on the City of Chains, and the world



The Chanter’s Board has been updated. New quests are available.





How could so much have happened in just a few hours?

Sophia Dumar was fuming, hiking her skirts up slightly and descending the Chantry steps as quickly as she dared. Upon reaching the bottom, she took off towards the Viscount’s Keep, desiring to break into a run, but just barely having enough sense not to. It was very important that she was never seen to panic. Sophia was really the only well-respected member left in the Dumar family, as the nobility in Hightown had often witnessed, and then talked about, her unfailing efforts to hold her father and brother together. As much as they talked about Saemus and her father behind their backs, at least they knew the pair of them had a voice of reason at their side.

Of course, they would whisper other things if they saw the Viscount’s daughter running through Hightown in a panic, her dress streaming behind her. It irked her that such posturing was still necessary even when her own family member was in danger, but she had to think long-term here. Always she had to be two steps ahead. Saemus was not in immediate danger, as anyone who had kidnapped the Viscount’s son would do so for the potential profits from ransom. Damaging the family’s reputation beyond repair was something she could prevent by appearing calm.

Well, calm was a polite word for it. She walked swiftly, her face set as stone, an undeniable urgency in her step. She shuddered to think of the possibilities had Sister Mirabelle not been in the Viscount’s Keep, and had not thought to inform Sophia, who had been praying for her brother’s safety in the Chantry, and speaking with the Grand Cleric. Elthina had advised Sophia not to do anything rash upon returning to the Keep, but her warning had little effect on the girl. She had to do this herself. Regardless of what her father thought, she wouldn’t trust just anyone with the well-being of her brother.

The Keep seemed farther away than usual this time, but at her pace, it wasn’t long before Sophia was climbing the other large set of stairs in Hightown, the approach to the Keep on Viscount’s Way. The guards gave her respectful nods as she passed, and the two before the great doors into the Keep cleared the way for her, allowing her to stride into the main hall of the Viscount’s Keep unhindered. She just about ran into the first person she saw inside, a tanned, hardened looking woman, well-armed and outfitted in light leather armor. She grinned at Sophia as she passed her.

“Don’t worry yourself overmuch, sweetheart. We’ll drag your brother back here and make a bloody mess of whoever took him. The Winters are more than a match for any Qunari, mark my words.” She blew past Sophia before she had a chance to respond, the half-dozen men she’d arrived with following her out. Sophia could have screamed. The Winters. She’d learned of them recently, some mercenary band out of Nevarra, looking to get a foothold in Kirkwall. They did not have a good reputation, at least not for getting things done cleanly. They got their work done, that was for sure, but their methods were unsavory, to say the least.

Sophia shook her head, moving swiftly up the stairs out of the central room, taking a left and heading towards the Viscount’s office. She found her father’s seneschal, Bran, outside the door, his red-orange hair neatly slicked to the side, his dress impeccably fashionable as always. He attempted to preempt Sophia as she approached.

“My lady—” he began, but Sophia was quick to cut him off. “Don’t, Bran. You’re not going to talk me out of this one.” Bran flashed her a charming smile, which was deflected fully by Sophia as if she’d smacked it out of the air with a shield. “That doesn’t mean I can’t try. Please, don’t put yourself in danger for this, the Winters are more than capable of—”

“Bringing Saemus home safely? You don’t believe that, do you Bran? They’re brutes, more likely to bash my brother’s skull in than rescue him! Does father know of this?” Saemus glanced around slightly nervously. “Please, my lady, if you would just keep your voice down. Appearances must be maintained, as I’m sure you already know. Your father gave me orders to hire anyone skilled enough to help. He will take no chances with this Qunari, and as the Winters say, they leave nothing to chance. Although, I admit, their methods leave something to be desired, and I didn’t think them the best choice for a rescue mission, but what am I to do?”

“How about not sending murderers to keep my brother safe?” she said, her voice stinging him slightly, but she let it slide. What was done was done. She could still fix this. “What’s this about a Qunari? Tell me what the Winters learned so that I can go after them and make sure this doesn’t go horribly wrong.” The look on Bran’s face told Sophia that he wasn’t giving in easily. “The leader of the Winters, Ginnis, said that her scouts had successfully tracked the boy down, and that he had been captured by a Qunari. But please, Sophia, the Winters are very intent on receiving their reward for this. Don’t put yourself in their way. There’s no telling what they might try. And your father explicitly stated you were not to go.”

“Bran,” she said, quieter now, “I need to know where he is, where the Winters are headed. You know I won’t let this go. I just want to be there in case something goes wrong. Are you really willing to trust Saemus’ life to a band of thugs?” The seneschal sighed, before giving in. “I should know better than to keep arguing with you, my lady. The Winters tracked him to the Wounded Coast. If you leave soon, you should be able to follow their trail.” Sophia exhaled in relief. “Thank you, Bran. I appreciate this.”

She took her leave, heading to her quarters, passing her father’s room on the way. He likely knew she would go after Saemus, but unlike Bran, he knew better than to try and stop her. He’d long since lost his ability to stop Sophia from doing what she would. Sliding her door closed, Sophia slipped out of her dress and began donning her armor.




It was days like this one in which Ithilian found himself wishing he’d chosen to stay with Marethari’s clan, instead of coming here to wallow among the downtrodden and the hopeless.

But perhaps it was a fitting place for him, hopeless as he was. He sat in front of his pitiful little home in the alienage, leaning his back against the wall, facing the vhenadahl in the center of the elves’ little corner of Lowtown. In his hands was what was formerly a small block of wood, but was now beginning to look very much like a halla, though the noble beast’s spiraled horns were not yet quite in the shape Ithilian wanted. He chipped away with a small knife of his, a blade that had been through far more than these elves here could ever imagine. He remembered a specific occasion in which he had plunged this very blade deep into the skull of a darkspawn hurlock that had tackled one of his comrades to the ground. He’d saved his fellow’s life, but only temporarily. The taint got him a few days later. One by one, they had all fallen to the wretched darkspawn, as they desperately tried to flee through the Brecilian Forest to the north. Even Felaris hadn’t been able to survive. A shriek had been able to sneak into their camp when one of the hunters had fallen asleep at his watch from exhaustion, and by the time the creature’s screams woke their makeshift camp, their leader’s throat had been slit from ear to ear.

The thought of those days made him restless, and angry. Oh, how far he had fallen, by some chance at the hands of the Blight, yet another thing the shemlen had brought into the world. He had lost his connection to anyone who thought as he did among his kind, that they would simply run themselves into the ground if they did not change course. If they did not fight against the weight that wanted to crush them under its heel. No one would hear him, and no one would join him. Marethari protected her clan well enough, he could give her that, but she’d turned them into a bunch of fearful nomads, trying to hide from the humans while they focused on remembering the past. Remembering. The word made him feel oddly sick to his stomach. Reclaim was the word that Felaris had used, and the word Ithilian had lived by.

The word he still lived by. He had to remind himself of that every now and then. To admit defeat in his fight was to admit that he had nothing left to exist for. If that were true, he might as well go back in his house and hang himself with his bowstring. No, he wasn’t done yet. Not by a long shot. This city was ripe with opportunity for someone looking to make a mark. He just had to bide his time, avoid the attention of the city guard, and find the right chance, the right way to get his message across. He had to not only make the humans feel what he felt for once, but also find a way to inspire the others, to convince them that they could achieve something greater if they were just willing to push back.

He was shaken from his thoughts as the gleam of shining silver armor caught his eye. He looked up from his woodcarving to see a man in the unmistakable armor of the Templar Order descending the stairs into the alienage. Ithilian shifted his headscarf and squinted with his one remaining eye to get a better look at the man. Red-brown hair, striking blue eyes, a thick goatee, and middle aged, perhaps five years older than Ithilian or so. It was not the first time Ithilian had seen this shem within the alienage. In fact, he had visited several times in the past few days, always meeting with Arianni under the vhenadahl, where they discussed something Ithilian had previously considered to be not his business. He wasn’t looking to get the attention of the Templars if he could avoid it.

But Arianni’s vallaslin marked her as one of the People, and for that Ithilian felt obligated to speak with her. Whatever she had gotten herself in, the woman was Dalish, and worthy of his assistance. Perhaps once the Templar left this time, he would see what her troubles were, and if he could be of use. Gods knew he could use something more meaningful to do with his time.