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Rorick Vallan

Your resident psychopath who revels in the death and agony of the innocent..But he wants to save the world, too. Trust him.

0 · 229 views · located in Ferelden

a character in “Dragon Age: The Grey in Between”, originally authored by Blazezon, as played by RolePlayGateway

Description


Rorick Vallan
"Wha'did ye just call me ya 'lil nug-licking, bronto-fuckin', milk-drinkin' whoreson?"


::Motorhead - Smiling Like a Killer::Motorhead - One Short Life
::Rancid - Dead Bodies::Dick Dynamite and the Doppelgangers - Deviant

Image

Nickname:
"Hehheh..See, thars this funneh story 'bout these two twins..." I'm going to stop him right here and say 'yes'. Most of them revolve around his job and over all..Persona.

-Rorick The Mad.
-Rorick The Blooded/Bloodedged.
-The blooddrunk gatekeeper.
-That dirty whoreson who still hasn't paid his sodding bar tab.
-That dirty whoreson who stole my daughters virginity!
-Princeslayer.

Gender:
"Do ya realleh need ta be askin' me tha? Issit nawt obvious what'a got danglin' atween ma legs? If ya be needin' a little convincin' tho, I'd gladly show ya..."
Don't tempt him to prove it, at all. He will. Happily. Just. Don't. Do. It. I prefer my eyesight and sanity.

Age;
Thirty-Three. "Young fer'a Dwarf, ain't I?"

Sexuality:
"Straight as tha sword I'm about ta be shovin' up yar gullet fer askin'!"
Need he say more?

Race:
All Dwarf, all angry, all bearded, all the time.

Role:
Deranged and somewhat psychotic slayer of Darkspawn, specializing in Ogres and their broodmothers.

Status:
Warrior. "Ye really need'a be gettin' them eyes checked if ya askin' this too. Li'le insultin' actually."

Hair
- Color and Length: Those flame coloured locks of pure unkempt beauty stand at least nine inches tall in the mohawk that he never, ever lets down. What sort of spit-shine-lyruim-infused-ale-based-glue he uses to keep it that way no one knows, and no one really asks. We call those people smart people. To accompany it however he has a single braided strand of hair that reaches down to the nape of his neck and signifies him as a Slayer. He was supposed to cut it off upon his exile, but that didn't exactly work for him. As for the carefully braided beard he sports, it's thick and decorative tendrils reach just shy of his bellybutton. If you want the inches on that, you ask him. I like my teeth in my mouth, thank you very much.

Eye
- Color and Shape: Originally his eyes were as green as a freshly cut Emerald, nice and wide with the splendor of youth to boot. But due to his lifestyle they're now washed out, and tarnish-yellow. The often bloodshot little orbs of psychotic Dwarven hatred are now as narrow and beady as any good member of the race.

Skin Tone:
"Pale as'a Elven arse. An' cleaner too!"
What can I say, underground living. Not much diversity in skin tone when molten lava replaces the sun for a source of natural lighting.

Height:
Four-feet-one-inch. Pretty common for Dwarfs.

Weight:
162lbs. Good meaty weight. Prime for charging headlong into other fleshy objects. “Dwarven pastime that is.”

Overall Appearance:
For him to tell someone a complete stranger "I'll met ya in tha Denerim market. Can't miss me salroka." would make the task quite easy. He's not the kind of person you mistake, nor needs to announce himself. Between hair nearly a fourth his height, a body shaped like barrels spouting off of one really big barrel, traditional Slayer lack of clothing, tribal tattoos inked in sky-blue, a cluster of scars on his back and more piercings than the average pirate there's no overlooking him. To be a little more specific however..

Tattoos: Five are always clearly visible. One on his stomach, face, right arm, left shoulder(spanning down onto his back) and left elbow. These all have a different meaning, the one on his face for example being a very old, primitive sigil for his house. The others make up feats he's accomplished, kind of like badges of honour done in a primeval and tradition style for Slayers. From darkspawn vanquished in a single battle to wounds endured in a single battle and the most recent triumph at the proving. Each one has a story and if you catch him in the right mood he'll divulge. The sixth tattoo is located on the arch of his right foot and he simply refuses to speak of it and is likely the one thing he never shows off.

Piercings: Most are just for looks, what can I say, he likes them. There's a total of two iron rings in his right eyebrow, and two studs each with the fragments of old runes in the right ear, a ring with an small chain attached to a match ring in his nose resides in the left earlobe. He just finds it awesome for some reason. To top it off both nipples are pierced and currently housing a tooth each from a particularly nasty Hurlock Alpha he felled, and in the realm of 'you don't want to know' he has two ringed piercings in a place that doesn't show often. I won't go into detail, but he says the ladies love it, if you know what I mean.

Scars: His back reads like a road map of the Deep Roads chewed up and spit out by a Mabari. Countless jagged lines of grey and white scar tissue form stark gashes in every direction imaginable. These are all 'tokens' left by the clawing hands and fetid steel of the Darkspawn, and a few fellow warriors in some not-so-nice provings. They're dense enough even the tattoo that you see on his shoulder has been mangled to a point of in-existence on his back. In a way it's fair to say he treasures these, because each one is a monument to the fact he has crossed steel with the wicked beasties and walked away the victor.

As for clothing his attire is amazingly simple. His trousers, patch worked as they are, are nothing but simple cloth. As you can guess by his muscle mass he's not the most agile warrior to ever pick up a blade, and as such for armour he only wears a steel-scale neck guard. This drupes down to about his breasts and just between his shoulder blades. The plain leather belt with the ornate buckle is again a sign of his accomplishments. Won from an old proving with Luck-runes inlaid to it. And if you're wondering about the rope around his arm it's down for battle to keep the circulation cut off in case of being sliced there. Very simple and basic preemptive blood loss prevention. Ankle guards are just common sense to top it off.

Personality:
They say your personality is just an evolution of all your experiences and a reaction to the crucial enviorments in your life. If that's true, it's not surprising that Rorick isn't the nicest person in the world. If anything, it's surprising he hasn't burn the whole world down yet. Once a proud, extremely driven man with only the singular goal of becoming a Paragon, a living embodiment of everything a Dwarf could aspire to be, the treatment of his people shows in the cruel, mocking reflection he now is. Honour, nobility, kindness. Those are traits slowly bled from him by the roar of Proving crowds. His attitude has spiraled from humble protector to an egotistical and apathetic, outright sadistic man. Once feeling proud to defeat the darkspawn to keep his people safe, he know thinks they should've bowed down to him, and that all other weaklings should too. It was his strength, his sacrifice and his blood that kept their miserable, useless lives running. His dance of death fighting style has slowly warped his mind as well. He feels closer, and closer to truly 'living' the closer he is to death, whether his own or the enemies, and now even suffering peoples. If he was to walk through the Alienage of Denerim it would be like a vacation with all the suffering if he could keep his contempt for their pathetic weakness aside.

To him, might now makes right. If you have the force to take something, whether a meal, a house, or life you have the right to. The average person's usefulness is very material, and once they've outlived it they have no reason to continue breathing. Weakness offends him, and thanks to his suicidal-conditioning he views things like love or attraction a true weakness. He is however not without humour or intelligence. It was a requirement to survive the things he underwent. Sarcasm and jokes are the staple of his coping, and the only way he can pass himself off to people as 'sincere'. He may be cold, but he's not stupid enough to flaunt his apathy and ruthless sadism, often finding ways to turn it to his advantage to mire respect or fear.

As for his battle style he comes with a true on-off switch when it comes to thought. Conscious, morals, feelings, logic. Once the blood start flowing those all go away. He dives in headlong no matter what the odds and lashes out with catastrophic vigor and reckless abandon. His life means nothing in battle, nor do those of his allies.

This being said, who he is is likely a fractured shell with the thoughts of revenge and the mirror of inflicting pain on others keeping him alive. His personality is not granite, and aspects could just be what his father told him he wanted, and a reaction to the hate of Orzammar. He likely has no clue who he is, and is open to influence.

History:
Within the decaying halls of the once mighty Orzammar a constant war is being waged, most commonly with steel and blood. Whether noble or servant a sword arm is always needed. And only one place can produce the best.

Born into the middle ranks of Dwarf society, the warrior caste, Rorick was a hope set to flesh. A house low within the harsh military ranks every warrior's house adhered to, and bound to the lowest of the nobles, elevation was an ever present theme to him even as a babe. His father, still young, had sustained a grave injury in a proving, the House's last bid for glory, and could no longer fight the Darkspawn. It was due to that that all of the man's ambition, passion, and need to be the absolute best were driven into his young son with a fever resembling that of a demon. There was no time to be a child, there was no time for friends, or a mother's hug, just sword and steel drenched in sweat and blood. It's not as grave as you might think, though.

From the time Rorick was barely able to lift his father's ale mug he could(and would) happily bludgeon a peer twice as large as him with a giggle, much to his father's pride. There was always a sort of spark behind him, a look in his eyes like a flame not daring to stand still less it be suddenly extinguished. He always had a deep curiosity in him, but not the gentle sort those seeking knowledge had. It wasn't "What is this?" or "How does that work?" it was always "Can I kill it?" or "Where can I find one to kill it?" As if to carefully feed that flame he was raised off a steady diet of the bolstered exploits of his father during his military surface and the legendary conquests of Paragon's long lost. By the time he was big enough to hold something as simple as a dagger that growing curiosity, that hard-installed desire to prove himself in battle was harnessed and training was day in and day out. The truth of it was that this was the best possible thing for him. All you had to do was look at him sparing with a brother or a rival families child and it was clear as stone. Within the symphony of clashing steel, submerged deep in the swampy scent of thick sweat and coppery blood he was more alive then anywhere else. The closer the blade to his chest the quicker he moved, the faster he thought. It was only when closest to death that he looked closest to life. This was the entire trait that would comprise his entire life.

His youth was a rocky road paved in blood. Spars to the death happened on occasion and he was pitted against every boy and girl his age from every house, holding his own even in his losses. He was to be everything his father hoped, and the desire to please held him tightly.

On his sixteenth name-day you never saw a dwarf with a wider grin, he was finally given to the army-proper. Thrown an axe and thrust outside the great gates of Orzammar. Taught to harness the primal fury of a true Dwarven warrior at the slightest sound with nothing between his home and certain destruction other than himself. It was a dream come true, but the beginning of a nightmare. Years of loyal service would tick by. Each day was like an unknowing march towards a hell far more intimidating than the breeding grounds of monsters.

Eight soldiers counting Rorick and a nobleman were sent down into the deep roads with nothing but a map. Some old Thaig had been uncovered, allegedly, and it needed some scouting, and probably some clearing out. It was supposed to be a simple enough mission, low resistance expected but what they found was band of big and uglies. Just shy of a seventy Darkspawn had for some reason taken up residence within the old Thaig, including an alpha. All protocol and stratagem went to the wayside in an instant. The enraged howls of ferocious Dwarfs would echo through that hall for days, the sickening wet crunches of steel cleveing through twisted flesh on it's heels. All of the soldiers fought valiantly, but something snapped within Rorick's mind. Not in the usually rage-educed manner of a beserker, but something older. It was as if he new this was his one chance at greatness. The savagery he fought with was enough to give his fellows pause, even while they too were blinded by rage. Without thought for himself or for an outcome he dove into an entire rabble of Darkspawn, axe gleaning with a crimson stream just behind him, fountains of tainted blood erupting in it's wake.

When all was said and done a total of sixty-four Darkspawn laid dead on the stone, nearly half of them belonging to Rorick alone. It wasn't hard to tell, his kills had been so thoroughly butchered you could barely tell they ever once lived. Glory was his, and the nobleman new it. The group quickly returned to Orzammar and a much larger expedition force was mounted to clear anything else that may have waited in the old Thaig. Rorick himself demanded to go but the political forces of his world had other ideas for him. He was 'invited' to a Proving. Some Desher's daughter had just married into a higher house the higher house by right demanded the proving. The noble from the expedition, a man of House Dace no less had demanded a champion of his own present, and that that champion be the young Rorick. The fight went much like you'd expect. Season soldier or not, he was no match for the Proving duelists. He made it three rounds before being harshly beaten down by a retired soldier. The man's skill was far to much for the wild fury of the young Dwarf. Though he thought it was the end of his limelight, the nobles had other plans.

Within that Thaig, and a few others old secrets had been discovered, secrets from as far back as the first blight. These included an old Paragon's house training secret. A way to take the primal fury of the Dwarfs much farther, and the key to that Paragon's success. "Slayers" they called those warriors, and though wisely abandoned for centuries the practice was about to return to Orzammar's forefront, the perfect candidate having been so recently discovered.

At the urging of his father he accepted the mysterious offer a house Dace member offered him. Private training that he would never share or speak of till complete. He'd be living with the Daces for awhile and it was promised that he would emerge a warrior worthy of his own house. Everything his father wanted, everything he was ever told he wanted, all wrapped up into one. Though cautious, there was no other choice in his mind. The next decade of his life would be nothing but a grueling regime.

Half the time he wasn't aware of anything but the pain, he wouldn't sleep for spans so long he'd stop counting after a week and not question the things he saw. His body was pushed to breaking and beyond constantly, injuries were never treated. He was fed a constant stream of an unknown substance he could of swore had a taste of refined lyruim in it, and it kicked like a pissed off Ogre. He didn't question and more then once he thought himself dead. When he emerged back into the world of Orzammar, now Twenty-nine years old, almost every inch of his being had been demolished and rebuilt. The resemblance was almost non-existent. He was for all intensive purposes, a Slayer. A beast made to combat Darkspawn, and one specializing in Ogres and their Broodmothers no less.

It was only a matter of time before Orzammar realized they weren't ready for such a creature.

In a small campaign waged against the Darkspawn he proved to be a terror, even to his kin. He was like a Legion of the Dead but so much worse. No funeral was held, no goodbye to his prior life but he did not fear death in least. Staring down the jaws of an Ogre he was unflinching. His attack style was brutal, completely reckless. The part that scared his people was that he did not suffer living, either. There was no thought of coming back from battle, there was no thought of failure. There was kill, or kill more. It was simply to unsettling. The fact that he was still a fledgling of the art meant he was by no means a god like the Paragon Ruthrard. He was a pup with more power than skill. He was injured so easily, and though the heat of a battle he could ignore more pain than the average warrior it always caught up. Hard. Leaving him bedridden for days on end. He was pulled from active service due to fear of what the noble's had created. As a way to calm him, and keep his bloodlust in check, he became a fixture in all Provings for the next year.

That was an eventful year in Orzammar, four Provings, each with the same victor. It was a way for him to hone his skills and more than once the city flinched as a duel turned into an execution. There was no controlling him. Despite his glorious victories he was given no elevation. They knew the ancestors didn't favour him, but instead sent him as a punishment for their hubris in trying to recreate the Slayers of old. The city both loved, and feared him. He was for the time a star, and he loved it. Everything came to an end though. The city turned it's back on him like it did so many others who gave life and limb to serve it.

He was banned from the Provings, banned from the military, not a noble just a warrior unable to fight. A savage unable to kill. A man without purpose. All the stories about honour and duty, glory and praise turned bitter in his mouth, washed down with a stiff bit of ale. Everything he ever believed in, the object he sacrificed his life for, even the man who's always pushed him even as a babe now turned their backs on him. He did the only thing he could. He left the city, axe in each hand.

For the next year stories slowly trickled back to Orzammar, both horrifying and riveting at the same time. Slowly Rorick was honing his skills it seemed, in conjunction with the Legion itself in a most odd way. HE watched them. Just watched. Every battle, never lifting a finger, sating his bloodlust as a voyeur. Everyone knew him as a dead man, until he showed up at the city gates, request of the King himself.

There was a proving, one for the King's second sun finally becoming a commander. The boy was to watch it, and Rorick was to enter as a champion of Aeducan. If he could refrain from killing honour could still be his. The fights fell quicker than ever. He was still inexpericed with his skills, he was still a boy despite all his training and grizzled body, but the way he fought was to much for the proud fighters. It wasn't the skill, but the relentlessness of his style. Blow after blow sounding, steel clashing endlessly. The ears of every Dwarf in the arena rang that day, they could barely hear him declared the winner. Needless to say, the Aeducans were impressed.

Little did they know it, but the entire fate of Orzammar hinged on this. Bhelen had contacted him, a plan was hatched and in the next day Orzammar would silently tremble under the the cunning of a soon-to-be-king.

The excursion went normally at first. Small Darkspawn forces easily falling to the group of warriors might. The scouts were picked up easily and it wasn't long before they set foot in the old Thaig, only to be confronted by mercenaries. To the young Prince it was clear his eldest brother was setting him up, and shield in hand he casually strolled back to the metting point only to be confronted by Trian and his loyalists. What Bhelen hadn't expected was that the youngest wouldn't fight his older brother. He didn't feel threatened, he thought he could talk it out. Before understand could be achieved between the two the scouts opened fire, sparking a bloodbath with Rorick ultimately landing the killing blow to prince Trian. Not a moment later Endrin and Bhelen emerged from the passage ways. The ruse was up. Accusations flew left and right, and the young prince was to be exiled, along with Rorick. That wasn't part of the plan, and in a fit of fury at his betray he lunged at Bhelen. For some reason the young prince made the gravest mistake of his life. Not wanting to see another brother dead that day, betrayal or not, he grabbed Rorick's hair, holding him back.

Before anyone could react, like a whirlwind of glinting steel followed by a thick geyser of crimson the young prince's head found the floor, Rorick's axe it's introduction. The shock he felt was enough to quell his rage, and he willingly submitted to the bonds Endrin's guards placed him in, walking back to a cell in Orzammar os his own free will. In his bid for glory he'd just killed two princes and pissed on the last of the city he swore to that would have him. He awaited his execution with grim resolve, but it never came for him.

Bhelen was not a complete monster, and he did feel guilt. He had planned for Rorick to be exiled, and then to be paid on the surface. Through his wrangling and political pulls he managed to arrange for Rorick's exile after all, but not payment. Given nothing but a dagger the Slayer was thrust from the city, never to return. To wander the Deep Roads till his death in a bid for atonement.

For two whole days he sat alone in a cavern, nothing but the sounds of the twisted creatures that dared to call the roads home scratching at walls for companionship. He didn't eat, or sleep, or even move, he merely thought. So much of all he ever stood for and been ruined, so much of who he was corrupted. Orzammar had washed it's hands of him, but he was far from done with it. A bitter, revenge-fueled resolve set into him and once more he picked up his petty blade, carving a way through the unorganized and poultry Darkspawn forces until he found what he was looking for. The Legion's holding. Though they wanted nothing to do with the Princeslayer, they did take pity on him. They told him of the blight, the one above ground, and struggles of the people, as well as the tales of the Grey Wardens, and a place called Ostagar. Simple axes in hand and an escourt to an old surface-route that was his only plan. Redemption for himself would be found with these Wardens at this Ostagar, and once that was done he'd return to Orzammar with an army and crush it under his heel. Respect and glory would be his yet.

Unfortunately the trip was very taxing and very long. He arrived the day of the battle and never managed to get in contact with a Warden, Loghain's men keeping him at bay until the battle broke out. Like the madman he was, he was at the frontlines of it till a force banded together and begged him to join them clear a path back into the wilds to get some people out of the massacre alive. He made it, he carved the path but he found himself alone at the end of it, removed from the battle, waiting for the screaming to end and death to find him.

Weapon:
Two Dwarven war axes, both gifts from the Legion and very simple things. Common steel made by a rank-and-file smith.

Mount:
No. Do not suggest a pony if you value your lifespan. I mean this.

Potential Interest:
Nancy the Tavern Wench?
It's safe to say commitment isn't something he's prone to thinking of. In fact he's somewhat conditioned not to. That's not to say if a woman who could handle him ever came along he'd ignore it, but the chances are rather slim.

So begins...

Rorick Vallan's Story