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Fallon Rothilion

No. 29 - Sense of Visibility - Elf - "Tch. Don't cover your mouth."

0 · 476 views · located in The World

a character in “Grey&Spectral”, as played by Yonbibuns




Splendid; DE TuneAfraid; The Neighbourhood
Envy; ChevelleCrown of Love; Arcade Fire
Grounds For Divorce; ElbowAngry Sea; Mother Mother

You and I, divine but not devout

Every night my teeth are falling out


Name: Fallon Rothilion

Nickname: Predominantly, Tats. He's not fond of nicknames, so I wouldn't expect him to respond to any silly, colorful monikers you come up with. Grumpy-pants, sour-puss, frowny-clowny. All unsuitable. Not like he'd hear you, anyway.

Age: Cheated of Arlathan's longevity due to prolonged contact with humans, and living in a dirty Alienage, Fallon can expect to live as long as the average human. More to be cranky about, really. On the outside, Fallon's only twenty seven years old. On the inside, he's a snappy, cane-totting old man shaking his jowls and yowling at you to get off his lawn—or out of his face, whatever.

Gender: Male

Rank: Twenty-nine

Race: City Elf, from Vincere.

Motivation: His motivations, to say the least, have changed a bit. Fallon's not so keen on saving his entire race anymore, neither anyone else for that matter. People die far too easily. They're fragile things, like cocooned butterflies being snuffed out before they get the chance to grow. It passes too quickly, and he finds himself forced to watch like a deer in the headlights, dumbstruck and frozen. If he can't even save his friends, then how in the hell will he be able save his own people? Redemption is a fickle thing to believe in—but without it, he'd be dead somewhere. Probably lying in one of Vincere's decrepit gutters, nibbling on his toes and always waiting for something to squeeze out the hate inside of him. Peaceful hand-holding and rescuing maidens from the grips of nasty creature-generals isn't, and will never be, his motivation, but for now, doing something is better than nothing. Besides, a Redeemers duty is never finished.

Defensive/Offensive: Offensive as a person pilfering your liquor reserves.

Class: Senser; enhanced sight.

Eyes: Golden-myrtle, permanently unimpressed by your silly antics. Lightly curved, almond-shaped and bereft of any crow's feet that would be a telltale sign of a life lived laughing because he's got no time for that, don't you know. Expressions beyond Fallon's signature lidded, cross-glare is rare, by all means.

Hair: Downy-white, with gray tones. Fluffy as a duckling's bottom. You'd expect him to be picky about anyone touching his hair (or anything else surrounding his face), but he secretly enjoys when its played with. Head pats, ruffles, braids and brushes are welcome, indeed. In secret, of course. It might have been the last scuffles of a memory, barely clinging on; of a mother brushing calloused fingers through thick tufts of white, whispering how it looked like rainclouds. He let it grow a wee bit past his neckline, but occasionally calls for Ama's expertise to keep it from getting out of control.

Height: 5'11”

Weight: Lighter than he'd like to be, Fallon's lost a few pounds and sits at 164lbs.

Skin Tone: Unusually darker than any of his forest-dwelling kin. Russet-brown, smarmy as a sailor. He will deny being anything other than a full-fledged elf. There's no shemlen blood sullying his veins.

Build: Questionably lean. Slender as a reed, bit still somewhat wide shouldered. Fallon wishes he was somewhat larger (like their resident beefcakes) to balance out his weaknesses, but still colors himself surprised in combat. His leanness allows for greater movement and fluid, unencumbered acrobatics.

Body Markings: There definitely are markings. His body is a convoluted entanglement of patterns, striping him like a beast. Most notably, Fallon's face bears the largest concentration of tattoos, as the rest cannot be seen under his leathers and plates. In all unlikelihood’s, if Fallon had gone shirtless, then you'd see a stringent of stripes networking along the contours of his body, hugging his bone structure and forming a pseudo-skeleton of pale-blue. There are large star bursts across his shoulders in varying blues, stippling down into complex patterns on his forearms and elbows. His back, perhaps, has the most intricate designs. Spiraling labyrinths, ghostly spinal chords and lines where his ribcage would be.

Voice: Fortunately, Fallon lost his hearing when he'd already heard his own voice. Language is not a foreign concept to him, so his words are not made out of slurred things tumbling out of his mouth, unintelligible. However, it's been long enough that he isn't sure how he sounds like most of the time, but hopes it comes out as a monotone drone, as if painted in monochrome, bereft of any vibrancy he does not feel. He'd asked Ama and Ezekiel once upon a time, when being deaf bothered him. They never said he sounded gruff or shrill; nor sing-song and strident. Perhaps, soft-spoken and a little flat, unless angered. His voice, it seemed, spoke volumes. Technically, Fallon can hear his own voice, being latently deaf. Whether it is bone conduction, or partially remembered sounds, he's sometimes able to re-imagine certain things—like crackling fires, hoof beats, and clattering swords, without actually being able to hear them. It helps if there are vibrations, as well. Visual cues help him understand what people are saying but sometimes he thinks they're saying something else, because their lips are moving in certain patterns that remind him of sentences he's seen other people speak.

The inability to gauge his tone of voice gives him the perfect excuse to keep his yammer promptly shut. Besides, Fallon has nothing really good to say. Elbow-jibes and teasing exact affronted snorts, horse-like harrumphs and stewing noises that sound like some catty creature hiding in a dark cave. Honestly, the only time Fallon sounds unlike himself is when he's ankle-deep in a bottle of wine, drowning in innuendos he would otherwise ignore. Jumps up a few notches, and slurs in all the right places. He even laughs, when he's drunk, that is. Sounds almost natural, though it's far louder than he'd like. Without his dandy bottle of Merlot, Fallon's tone, volume and rate suffer and he's left sounding pretty bland. Appropriate expressions for appropriate situations are useless, anyway.

For all purposes, he sounds a wee bit like Jude Law. Same type of lilting matter-of-fact accent—although more condescending, somewhat dark, and with inner turmoil accompanying.

"You presume much."

Description: Fallon is shapes. Metaphorically speaking that is. He sits halfway between some Elven guttersnipe still somewhat wandering the streets, and a pissed off patron teetering on the edge of a bar stool. Either image is pretty accurate. He's slender as a grasshoper, sans chirping. The last remnants of boyhood have long since shed off, but his Elven lineage holds tight as ever to his ankles. He will never look as manly as he wishes to be, nor grow out any scruff on his chin, but he's determined to make the best of it. His withering gaze, for instance, has the ability to peel paint off the walls. He's made up of sharp angles (sharp enough to cut through ham) and rough edges, particularly in the bone structure of his face. It's almost as if the flesh is hugging the bones too tightly, though it's not entirely unappealing. Still, Fallon walks a fine line between being physically fit and becoming a shamble of skeletal-bones, shifting between an irate feline and a rickety hell-hound. He shares the telltale signs of his Elven bloodline, still holding strong beneath dark shrouds. Sharp featured, willowy framed, and vibrant-eyed. However, Fallon's escaped being terribly short, as his kin are bound to be, by scrapping up to be a smidgen taller than the average shemlen. The significance of this is paramount, in his opinion.

As far as modesty goes, Fallon does not understand aesthetics. He understands efficiencies, comfort and temperance. Looking good is a foreign concept, so he it isn't likely that he will notice anyone's effort to appear a certain way, if you've gotten your hair cut, or if the shaggy mop that is his own hair looks as awful as you say it does. Neither would he see anything wrong with walking into a fancy establishment with last battles gore still clinging to his boots, tracking grisly tracks the entire way in. You can dress him up, to a certain extent, and bring him out, but don't expect him to do it himself. He cleans up well. His hair is made up of duck fluff and dirty snow, colored a pale, pale gray. He swears isn't because of his age, or some kind of inhibited stress that's finally gotten to him. It's hereditary, on his mother's side, except hers was a much nicer shade. Of late, Fallon's allowed his hair to grow beyond the nape of his neck, neglecting the shear for no reason in particular. The sideburns are left hanging longer, stopping short of his chin. He keeps his bangs swept to the side, so he can shoot his bow proper-like. It frames his face, twirling at its ends. His skin tone is most peculiar, as well. Russet-brown, tanned and weathered, as if he belongs on someone's ship.

His peepers are, perhaps, the only expressive things about him, given his limp-noodle, cantakerous personality. While you might have thought they were glued half-shut, lidded and perpetually screaming I don't give a crap about what you're saying, then you'd be wrong (but forgivably so). In spite of bellying a nonchalance he wishes to share with anyone who comes close, Fallon is something of an open book. Especially if one cares enough to take a gander at what his face is doing. Almost like sunshine, bent into bedroom eyes without the innuendos. Or ugly straw, smarmy with mildew. Sometimes, like shiny gold coins, dirt clinging to its edges. Yellow-bellied like a newt, twisted into the kind of jealousy you can taste at the back of your mouth. There's a bitterness there, filled to the brim with anger, you're sure.

Noticeably, Fallon has a hooked nose, hawkish and pointed. Perfect to look down at people, but terrible if someone's throwing punches at his face. He's had his broken, and fixed, several times. Thankfully, it has not healed crooked, though there are a couple scars on the right side, where the cartilage broke through—someone he really, really pissed off took a rather large stick and batter-up-boy'd his face. Probably responding to a snide comment, with Fallon paying no heed to any danger he might be putting himself in. His ears are average-length, stippled with studded piercings on the upper ridge. On occasion, Fallon likes to put piercings of Dalish make in his earlobes, but most times, they're left bare for fear that they will be ripped out in battle. His lips are bowed, lightly cleft and prone to surprising bouts of character. Perpetually bored or mashed together, always on the brink of saying something that will offend. Ninety percent of the time, it slips. Pearly teeth are usually pulled back in a tooth-baring scowl, but don't worry, he eats with his mouth closed.


  • Subtly? What are this? Seriously. Either Fallon is intentionally malicious or he was born without the ability to smooth other truths, shaking out the wrinkles but amiably choosing not to take out the scissors and slice up the fabric. People who know him well realize it is the latter, while those who don't generally think he's a jerk. He slices and dices with that deadpan look of his, wondering why his face attracts fists and slaps. Lying puzzles him, even if its for the person-in-questions benefit. Truth is, Fallon isn't trying to hurt anyone's feelings, but he doesn't see the point of walking on eggshells ever. Did your dog die, and you were oblivious about it? He will tell you, in detail. Has your wife run off with Lucas someone else? You'll know, in detail. His silence, on any subject, is only granted if he doesn't care enough to deign you with a response.
  • He's a little paranoid. Generally, Fallon doesn't like having his back facing any open areas, roads, doorway. Any place where baddies could be lurking and waiting to get a jump on him. Ambushes are awful on his nerves. Trying to get him to lose his composure? Sneak up and scare him. Because being caught unaware, especially since he can't hear footsteps, twigs cracking and what-not, is humiliating. He doesn't really like being the last one asleep, either. Staying up on patrols, volunteering his efforts even if he's exhausted, is commonplace.
  • He hates, hates, hates when people touch his face, even if their intentions are intimate or kindly in nature. It may stem from some childhood memory, or something else, but chances are he's not willing to tell you even if you pry. Any attempt to tease him will evoke awfully irate results, like a snapping turtle or cornered dog. He will bite. As mentioned before, Fallon does not mind his hair being played with, but there are invisible lines that mustn't be crossed. Ama, thus far, has been slowly weaning him off his abhorrence for physical contact—it's a work in progress.
  • He's inadvertently gullible to things he doesn't understand: books, maps, the economy, and anything else he wasn't exposed to in the Alienage. For example, if someone were to show him a picture book of lovely lasses, with the explanation that it was how men remembered maps to describe specific places, he'd probably believe it until someone told him otherwise, or if he somehow found out himself. The results of doing this, as usual, turn out badly. Fallon does not understand the worth of things when it comes to relinquishing coin. Why would a vase cost so much? It is made of clay.
Exotic wines are a different story.

Fears: For someone who sticks out his chest and goes on and on about just how much he doesn't care, Fallon is afraid of a great many things, not that he would admit it. Firstly, suffocating in any sense. This encompasses a deep-seated fear of being unable to breathe, having hands wrapped around his neck, drowning and being attacked in his sleep. Having someone wrap their arms around his shoulder when he isn't prepared for it, being so dangerously close to his neck, sets off a panicky trigger. Necklaces and gorgets are shunned. Obviously, the tattoos spider-webbed across his throat were done much earlier in his life, or he wouldn't have gotten it done. Fallon is afraid of failure, in both senses—that is to say, he's afraid of not achieving his goals and being physically hobbled, paralyzed, or crippled. Doing something with no perceivable outcome, as well. Like trudging across Thedas, trying to save the world and not even creating a ripple. What was the point, kind of thing. On a more prejudiced level, Fallon is afraid of never being able to pull his people out of the pits, watching them wallow in all of those Alienages, segregated from everyone else and being utterly helpless. Never returning to save his mother, shaming her by not making a difference. Thumbs, hands, fingers near his eyeballs is a big no-no.

  • Wine. Absolute, delicious, fruity nectar. Fallon is a bit of a connoisseur when it comes down to liquors, wines, and the unpalatable hard stuff they keep under the counter for world-weary, tear-stained travelers. If wine was embodied in a woman, she would be glorious to behold—it reigns far higher than the others, and remains a steady favorite. Possibly because it doesn't taste like piss like mead does. To all of the brands with notes of peach and nectarine, sweet grapefruit and blood orange, floral and smokey, plummy with black pepper and rustic spices, and summer reds. He may drink because he has secret-hidden daddy issues, but he stays for the flavors.
  • Early mornings after a good rain. The chillier the better. Clean and crisp. Rejuvenates the soul and all that. He might be a little weird for liking it, but Fallon feels like it refreshes his lungs, stripping him of whatever worries he had the day before. It's easier to breathe in and out, so he guesses he'd like winter, too.
  • Really, really clear nights with unimpeded stars.
  • Strange cultures, superstitions, relics, historical ruins, the Dalish.
  • Handmade candy. Toffee, taffy, candied almonds. Lemon tarts, pies, cookies. Such things were reserved for rich, hoighty-toighty nobles, and most definitely not Elves, so he appreciates snacking on them whenever he can. Sweet-tooth? Most definitely.
  • Fragrant smells. Flower gardens, roses, tulips, perfumes.
  • Early morning swims, when no one else is around.
  • He likes how strong families are in the Alienages, but dislikes what they have to go through on a continual basis. Interacting with them secretly makes him happy. He'd never admit to liking children, but Elven children seem to be exempt from his commonplace-scowls.

"Because the hardest thing is never to repent for someone else. It's letting people in. Now that everyone's an enemy, my heart sinks."

  • Self-righteousness, specifically when it comes to naivety or justice.
  • Wasting time, in any sense (unless it involves drinking).
  • Being teased, prodded, pushed around, poked at.
  • People tugging on his ears, or touching them in general. Cupping your hand to his ear in some kind of a weird attempt to get him to hear you doesn't work, either. Expect nasty repercussions.
  • People touching his face, or getting uncomfortably close to his face. Anything to do with his eyes, too, really. They be sensitive parts of him, y'know.
  • Dirty people—he can see every molecule, every bit of dirt and dribble of sweat. Pores, wide open. It grosses him out.
  • Whiners, petty complaints, are-we-there-yet attitudes.
  • Being reprimanded for something he believes he did correctly.
  • Specific situations that leave him vexed—i.e, emotional happenstances, crying jags, or circumstances that involves comforting someone. He's not really sure how to, and doesn't like not knowing what to do.
  • Feeling useless, or being unable to do anything helpful. He doesn't mind sitting on the sidelines, quietly, but if there's something going on and he's told to sit still and wait, Fallon hates it.
  • Acorns.

Personality: Just a regular Casanova in the way he absolutely fails at being sociable or even moderately pleasant, heavy sarcasm intended; Fallon does not do interactions very well, if at all. He avoids it when he can. It's simpler that way, to say nothing at all and respond with silence. Overall, Fallon's unpleasant. He's always sitting somewhere between curdled milk or bristling like those terrible thorn bushes you avoid wading through, because no one likes picking out those thin-sliver abominations from their palms. He is your average next-door-neighbor asshole, swinging bitingly caustic comments as if they were stinging brambles. Secretly hoping to snag one hard enough into your ribs that you'll suddenly want to leave him the hell alone—and if that doesn't work, he'll literally try to stare holes through the back of your head; twisted, sour-face included. He's like a layered onion, half-rotten and still questionable as you peel off the layers, one by one. This isn't to say that he doesn't have any positive traits, but they're deep down—practically hidden in its core, waiting for someone to have enough patience to reach it. Who likes onion cores, anyway?

He's unsociable, awkward, and mostly solitary in nature. Exposure to new faces only leaves him even more vexed, though there have been marked changes over the years. Tiny, nearly imperceptible shifts in his stick-up-the-ass composure. Cracks in the wall, if you will. He's cooled down his attitude, and he's less likely to bite your head off if you interject your opinions (unless you're a scruffy, lewd sensor). Fallon prefers existing on his own, and if it were his choice, he'd walk his path alone. Unfortunately, this is impossible, so he's learned to open up his fists, loosen his grip on what is acceptable and not acceptable—at least long enough for him to walk away and clear his head. His patience is only as strong as the amount he's annoyed, which is to say that it's as weak and blubbery as a jellyfish wriggling on sand. If he doesn't hear what you're saying, then he could appear as patient as a doddering old lady (which is far from the truth). Hot-headed, reckless, and temperamental, Fallon's two seconds away from transforming into an overflowing, whistling kettle. If someone pisses him off, he's not afraid to confront them. Beating around the bush serves no purpose, but even so, discussing things like normal human beings is as unnerving as keeping it bottled up inside. He lashes, snarls, growls and spits.

Space is important to him, in all senses of the word. Personal space, physical space. Spaces between sentences, spaces in the means of leaving him entirely alone if something is eating at him, instead of pushing your comfort on him. He believes he can deal with his thoughts alone, and hardly confides in anyone. What's the opposite of intuitive? That's where he sits. Lengthy conversation leaves him exhausted, unless there's a point to whatever you're saying. Spend too long lingering on a subject, specifically one that makes him uncomfortable, and Fallon will simply walk away (because he's an ass). Making himself sparse, in situations where it calls for holding hands around bonfires to build bonds, is his specialty. He might have grown an affinity towards certain people over the years, but he shows it in peculiarly stunted ways. Like being inappropriately possessive, wickedly jealous and irritatingly protective. He's an extremely self-destructive person, bordering on suicidal (if he weren't so stubborn about getting things done quickly, and efficiently). He does not believe that his life is anything special, so he's willing to set his survival aside to complete his goals, his ambitions, his mission. Much to anyone's surprise, Fallon values other people's lives above his own, and will not risk their well-being to achieve any end-means, unless he's absolutely certain that they will be left alone, alive and well.

He is not as hard-hearted as he tends to behave. It's a farce, a mask—a disguise, if you will. Better to shrink into himself. Easier to rely solely on his own abilities; his two good arms and hands have never failed him so far, so why crack open his chest to allow vulnerabilities? He has enough of those, he thinks. He is fire, he is nails, he is biting edges and cold nights creeping in beneath gritty, dirty windowsills. There's enough blood on his hands to fill sinks, and he'd be lying through his teeth if he said that he regretted any of those deaths. But, Fallon is also brittle. His spine bends, barely returning to its original shape. He's prone to wild mood-swings and bursts of emotions, because he isn't exactly sure how to express himself properly. Tease him long enough and you'll witness one of those outbursts, he'll likely walk out on you. Just long enough for him to piece together what just happened, and form some sort of response. His biting remarks only come when he's assured that the conversation isn't genuine, but rather, just rib-tickling gibes meant to tip him off his carefully conducted scale. If you're being serious, you'll witness a deer in the headlights. One-part frozen, two-parts terrified.


Armor: Iron-cast shoulder-to-bicep pauldrons attached to a gorget, etched with Dalish markings. Leather, iron-plated arm braces with attachable hooks for his weapon, and fingerless archery gloves. Fluted, lightweight breastplate strapped around his chest.

Casual Clothing: Fitted green tunic and brown leather trousers, laced. He wears a heavy black cloak, fastened with a crescent-shaped pin.

Carried Items: Scuffed flask, various vials with confusing labels, sack of coins, a small silver pendant-necklace, assorted tools to assemble macgyvered arrows if he's short on supplies.

Main Weapon:

  • Name: Bellanaris
  • Type: Longbow
  • Made of: Hickory and Ironbark
  • Length: 72 inches
  • Weight: 15lbs
  • Description/Info: Ironbark-backed hickory longbow, beautifully crafted by whatever secret-seller Amaryliss had contacted in that shady bar. The craftsmanship surprised even he—one of the pleasant variety, which is even more surprising. Hand sculpted leaves span the length of the bow, spiraling towards the tan leather handwrap. There are initials on the back, but they do not belong to anyone he is familiar with. It came with a brilliant handcrafted quiver, as well. Crafted from quality leathers, and featuring leather lacing around its surface, including crossed lacing along the quiver's length. Probably purely decorative, but appealing either way. There's laces and a band that's meant to strap around his shoulder and back, where it currently rests. The mouth of the quiver is designed so that he can quickly draw an arrow over his shoulder.


Natural Talents:

  • Tight-rope Walker: Those slender legs of his aren't just for show. His previous life as a dirty guttersnipe, clambering across rooftops and slipping through alleyways have not gone to waste. Fallon has retained and refined his abilities, utilizing them in combat. Tight spaces? No problem. Sketchy ladder? He can climb it. As a youth, he often jumped and ran at treacherous heights, because it was the only place with enough freedom for him to play, and usually, the ground was far more treacherous, anyway. His reflexes, given his inability to hear his opponents, are impressive. He's quite flexible, as well.
  • Street Urchin: Growing up on the streets, or even in a back-alley Alienage, has its advantages. Fallon grew up knowing that he'd have to fend for himself—whether it be from stealing food or coin or someone's entire purse, but usually only those who have some to spare. Guardsmen, shemlen stupid enough to wander around their neck of the wood. Though this is not something he has needed to do for a long time, he's still quite able to steal something and slide it up his sleeves, without anyone noticing anything different. His hands are quick.
  • Truth-Seeker: Fallon has the innate ability to sift through things, pull back the curtains and see the big picture. He's not muddled by gray-areas, but operates in a sense of blacks and whites, rights and wrongs. If there is a clear way to get things done, then that must be the way to do it. Whether or not someone gets hurt in the process is a gray-area he's not familiar with. To him, it's easier this way.

Skills: (at least two)

  • Pain Tolerance: It might not come to anyone's surprise, but Fallon's physical pain tolerance is unnervingly high. He still feels pain, but he's divised a way to cope with it—either through his hour-long meditation sessions, or channeling his anger when in battle. Adrenaline may play a factor in this, as well. His senses, after all, have nothing to do with touch. Either way, this effectively makes him a terrible opponent to face. And an even worse ally to fight beside, given the fact that he isn't sure when to stop. He could be bleeding to death, and still moving forward. Broken bones, fractured femures aside, Fallon isn't a brick wall and might sway if he's a heaping mess of disjointed limbs.
  • Archery, Bull's Eye: His eyes are sharp for nothin', bubs. Fallon could attest to hitting every vital point on the human, or non-human, body with any of his arrows; makeshift or otherwise. It only takes him a few seconds to adjust his eyesight, flipping between specific abilities (though this can disorient him if there are several enemies, all in movement). He can see the spectrum of light visible to human beings; ultraviolet, infrared and polarized light, as well as being wholly capable of seeing near-perfectly in the dark. Each ability, otherwise pegged as lenses, can only be used as once (honestly, he's never been balsy enough to try two at once). The sharpness of detail, in accordance to even his Elven brothren, could be a hundred-fold, giving him the capability to see sweat trickling off their skin from three square miles away, at a fixed position. To this day, Fallon sometimes messes up and sees far too close when in close-quarters combat.
  • Memory Bank: His memory is not ediotic, but it's a close second. He remembers far too much, in vivid detail. Things he isn't sure he wants to remember anymore. Things that keep cropping up, holding him back when he wants to move forward. Fortunately, his elephantine memory is useful on occasion. He can remember every face he's seen, where he's seen them, what they said, and what they were wearing. It's difficult to shake him loose when he regurgitates your stupid arguements, slapping them on the table like a stoic-faced dealer. He absorbs details, analyses postures, memorizes eye colors, while everyone else is doing the talking.

Weaknesses: (at least two)

  • Low Discipline: Running off ahead like an idiot? Nearly getting himself killed to prove a point? Always suffering from the innate ability to sit the hell down and figure out a plan? Fallon suffers from all three of these, and continues making the same mistakes. He doesn't trust anyone enough to get the job done, so he thinks he can do it all on his own, which is hardly the case. No one can do everything, after all. He has difficulty following instructions, obeying authority, and being a good companion, overall. Not a good canditate as a soldier, or a Redeemer moving up the ranks. To some degrees, he's been changing. Increment by increment, inch by inch, Fallon is opening himself up, allowing himself to lean on others where he might not have years, months, or even weeks ago.
  • Low Strength: He isn't the strongest of the Redeemer's, but he's no pushover either. What he lacks in strength, he makes up for in pure tenacity. In pure, raw stubborness. He cannot overpower strong opponents, though its not for the lack of trying. Distance is his friend in combat, so he's keen enough to stay out of blade-range when he's able. While he does not like relying on those whose powers derive in the form of muscling their way through enemies, specifically like Manon and Ezekiel, Fallon is not stupid enough to think that his powers are on par with theirs. He cannot wield his blades, or muscles, in ways that contradict their nature.
  • Hard of Hearing: He's deaf, right? Well, deafness comes with its own list of impairments. Not only is he unable to tell when someone is behind him, but it hampers his abilities to communicate with his allies. There's no point in shouting out commands, trying to coordinate yourself with words, because he won't hear you, ever. Ambushers, in particular, are nasty if he isn't front-facing them. If they come from behind, and he's scouting ahead, then there's no way for him to warn his friends. Broken twigs and the shuffle of leaves are silent reminders that could end with a blade in his throat. A silent, unaware death, he thinks, would not be so bad, anyway.
  • Reckless, Self-destructive: Fallon's level of self-worth isn't very high. Not only does he not listen well to instructions, he's constantly rushing forward in battle. It's not martyrdome he's after, but he isn't quite sure that being recruited into the Redeemer's has given him a reason to live. He has no ambitions beyond changing the fate all Elves suffer. He has no wants beyond keeping his companions alive. He would gladly, and willingly, give up his life for those he trusts—almost too willingly. He does not fear death, and sometimes welcomes it. He does not claw for life. He lacks a survivor's will to live live live, at all costs.

Demoni Powers: Demoni Powers: deafdeafdeafdeafdeaf%% (be descriptive. this should correlate with your class--and returnees are probably getting a bump in power or somethin from consuming Litatio's blood. at least a paragraph)


Old Life
  • Martial Status: Happily single; awkward penguin that he is.
  • Family: I'm sure there will be more in the Important NPC's section, but for now:

Mother: Seletta – She was a beacon of light chasing the shadows away, back before anything had ever changed. She made things better just by being in the room, swaying courage like an unyielding flag. Gentle Dalish markings patterned her face, creeping below the ridge of her brow, and swirled around her eyelids as if they were flower petals waiting to alight from her cheeks. Bound only by her imagination, Seletta often drew him things. Pictures of her days spent in beautiful glades, leading antlered creatures into the valley she called home. While she may have had good reason to be bitter, she was not, because if she hadn't left her homeland, she never would have met Horus, her husband. Never would have had the honor of having two treasures greater than all, she would say, tucked in my pockets. She was made up of firecracker smiles, gentle hands and a soft spoken voice that could set him off to sleep in an instant. Her stories were beautiful, much like she was. Like a lovely weed growing wherever it wished, Seletta thrived. She made him want to be a better person. But, things change. People change. He changed, most of all. And for once in his life, his mother was ashamed. She did not like what she saw, and he could not let go.
Five Minutes; Scattered TreesPoint of Disgust; Low
I Hurt Too; Katie HerzigNo Surprises; Regina Spektor

Father: Horus (Deceased) – If his mother was a beacon of light, then his father was an immovable pillar. A drawbridge or an age-old stone weathering the worst storms and somehow always coming through unscathed. His strength came out in waves, billowing like the flags Fallon used to see peeping between the buildings. No one could burn them down, nor him. Both he and Trysar looked up to him, because he epitomized courage. Hook-nosed and hawkish, it is Horus who Fallon most resembles. His eyes are different though—warmer, vibrating with love for his family and pride in himself. Nothing else. Out of everyone he'd ever known in his youth, Horus laughed the loudest; without apology, without cringing and bowing his head for fear of being heard. He was free of the chains they slapped onto them the moment they were herded into the Alienage. He was the bravest of them all. It was his courage, and his pride, that killed him and his brother, but Fallon blames them most of all. His prejudices are deeply-rooted, festering like an infected wound. It is Horus, Trysar and Seletta who drive him forward. In spite of this, it is his father who hounds his steps, always whispering in the hollow of his mind's eye. Threatening to tear the eyes from his sockets for shaming his family.
Liar; ONE OK ROCKFor Blue Skies; Strays Don't Sleep
Search and Destroy; 30 Seconds From MarsBreak Me Down; Red

Younger Brother: Trysar (Deceased) – Curious-cat, bright eyed, motor-mouthed wonder. He needed to know everything right that instant just for the sake of knowing. Nothing was bland or boring or not worth knowing about, because he'd wanted to travel the world and lift up all the rocks to reveal everything underneath them. He was an impressionable one, too. Always looking up at his big brother, expecting him to do great things even though they were both confined to the Alienage. What could he do but bring him things to look at? Shiny baubles, pretty rocks and things he'd taken from any of the guards foolish enough to strike him—and for Fallon, that was enough. Seeing that look on his brothers face was enough. They used to make promises to each other. Vowing that someday they'd escape their lives and see the real world beyond the gates. See the Dalish and join up with them. Rebel and cast away everyone's chains, so that they may live freely. Trysar saw a future of peace, and Fallon disagreed in silence. It seemed to him, in the end, that peace was impossible. On that day, Fallon promised to see the world in Trysar's stead. He would make a difference, even if he needed to bloody his hands.
See You Soon; ColdplayAsleep; Emily Browning
Heaven's Not Enough; Steve ConteA Miserable Heart; Marek Iwaszkiewicz

  • Opinions:
    × Saving the world from disgusting God-wretches? Moping up the floors with Demoni-inflicted citizens? Sweeping up little stick-wielding girls and trading oily quips with shaggy-haired pole-dancers? Fallon never would have thought he'd be in that situation, but he's a Redeemer. And a Redeemer does as he's told, lest there wasn't any point in bringing him back in the first place. His opinions do not matter, and it isn't likely that he'll share them, anyhow.
    × Organization (Past) – Like he regarded everything in the past, Fallon hated it. It harbored shemlen, even if they proclaimed to be different from the others. Even if they swore neutrality. They promised him new beginnings, and a means of reclaiming his pride and honor, but they could not bring back his family, or mend what their kind had broken. His bitterness was a petty, well-fed thing. In other words, Fallon did not play nice.
    × Organization (Present) – Surprisingly, Fallon's changed his fanatical, sour-puss tune. However, his goals remain unchanged. The severity of the situation, when it comes to saving the world and all of its happy-shiny-citizens, still bears no importance, but he's found himself oddly attached to the people he travels with. Companions? Perhaps. He's learned that being a Redeemer has little less to do with having a second chance, and a whole lot more to do with sacrifice and duty. Living for someone else, purposefully. Outwardly, Fallon reveals no difference in opinion. Quid pro quo? Shrug.
    × "Ridiculous. Half the time, I'm not sure why we're doing this. The other half, I'm trying not to strangle him."

    "Sometimes, we do what we must. We do what must be done, despite the consequences. Ezekiel, Amaryliss. You should know best. I'm not afraid to bloody these hands for the greater good. I do not profess to be a martyr, but sacrifices are necessary."

  • Relations:
{   -100  | 0 | +100    }

There is little to bind Fallon in one place, but Amaryliss feels a little like the home he lost so long ago. He does not deign to pretend that he has two mothers. He does not pretend that she is anything other than what she is—Amaryliss, a kindly spirit who pulled him up by the arms and always smiled, as if she could not see the ugliness he painted over the world with such cold eyes. She was a kindness he did not deserve. One that still leaves him breathless, baffled. Savior, beacon, guiding light. Leader, mother hen, voice of reason. His protectiveness borders on a vicious flare of violence, something she does appreciate, but does not understand. Her heart is a soft, fragile creature. His is not. Amaryliss has always been many things, but he fears that he will someday let her down and that her expression will change from concern to weariness. That he will ultimately disappoint her and tread on the heart that sympathized with his own.

Like most of Fallon's relationships, theirs did not begin well. High tensions, a mutual distrust for new people, and all that. It was slow-going for them, really, but there's something to be said about similar-grouchiness building bonds cast in steel, except half as poetic and with none of that hugging-wussy stuff. They met when Fallon was first recruited, still dizzy with the loss of his hearing and twice as cranky. Somehow, the darker-man bellied his outbursts with a steady hand, and a steadier patience. Ezekiel is as close to a brother Fallon has ever had given the fact that his own flesh and blood died far too young (and he was the older one, besides). He listens to him, mostly. They both have deep wounds, and an appreciation for silence, though they choose to deal with things far differently. He respects Ezekiel's ideals—honor, duty, responsibility, and owning up for his mistakes, but does not believe he is capable of following his example as rigidly as he is. For reasons unbeknownst to even himself, Fallon seeks... some sort of approval from the man.
Ghosts That We Knew.

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Confusing relationship to say the least. Like all people who eventually leave, or die, Fallon treats them with a mild disdain; almost as if dying were a choice they made, and that it was a small, significant betrayal on their part. Honestly, it was Wes who gave him his first drink of ale, and wine, and whatever other liquor he had hidden in his repertoire. The water of the gods, he used to say, salved wounds like no other. Absentee father-figure? Half-assed mentor? Or just another Redeemer who passed on too soon.
Follow You.

Perhaps, Fallon understands Snow's hesitance most of all. Her inability to understand how groups function, or what to say next in a conversation (or maybe, he hopes that he isn't so alone in his confusion). Her appreciation for silence, when words are not necessary, draws him to her. She seems to understand his need for space, to figure things out and form his thoughts, as slowly as he needs to. Introverts liken to introverts. Had he been asked, Fallon would probably count her as one of his few friends, in that perfunctory-way of his. Sister-in-arms, fellow fiend-hunter. Debts are something he does not like to have, but he will not forget the one he owes her. She might have been the one to open his eyes a little wider to the fact that he cannot do everything himself, and at times, that it's crucial to rely on others.
See You Soon.

Women. Women. Woman. Lilith is a strange one—one that he's not accustomed to, and he swears that she and Lucas are two birds of the same feather, smirking and smarmy and hip-swaying their way through life to get what they want. It makes no sense to him. She makes no sense to him, but she's got a toothy smile, an I-don't-give-a-shit attitude and a flask full of something that makes his chest and throat burn. All in all, Lilith is good company. He just didn't understand how much he actually cared about her well-being until she died, and came back again. Honestly, he's just glad to have her back, even if he won't admit it.
Assassin's Tango.

Another relationship that leaves Fallon wondering where he stands. Rivals, friends, compatriots in battle. The viciousness he displays in battle likens to his own, so he guesses that he admires him. He's never been the intuitive sort, but he has a really hard time figuring out what Grey is thinking. Is he ever afraid? Does he care? Is he just going with the flow? It's difficult to tell, and he's not nearly sociable enough to ask. Seeing how he's always smiling, Fallon is left baffled. Key traits keep him teetering towards friendship. He's always dashing forward. While he does admire his tenacity, he does not like his inability to stay in his own space—as in, personal space and keeping to their own bubbles. He, too, has trouble reigning in his aggression.
Black Skinhead.

Manon reminds him of someone close. Perhaps, it's the wide-eyed curiosity in her eyes, stricken with old wounds. Perhaps, it's the way she carries herself. Partway innocent, partway dreamer. Fallon isn't sure why, but he's drawn to her personality. He wants to protect her, even though he's childishly smaller than she is (and presumably weaker). Their families are both shriveled things, and they've lost much throughout their lives—so, maybe that is what keeps him lingering at her side, silently offering his arms, his hands, his blades, in whichever situation that calls for them. He wants to preserve the goodness that he sees in her, when everything else looks dark, gloomy, and hopeless. However impossible the task may be to prevent her from changing over the course of their journey, Fallon remains a little nicer to her, a little less prone to backbiting comments.

This irritatingly crass, devotedly lewd man-child is far from being his friend. He isn't even sure what category he falls under, because either way, he'd be hitting on all the other categories. Never had he met anyone who so successfully grated on his nerves, without even trying. Little things, like throwing acorns at him, send him into a temperamental rage—like a scorned woman clutching her pride, and dignity, tightly to her chest. Had he always been so easily offended? He doesn't think so, but it's hard to tell. Does he want to strangle him? Sometimes. There's something else, too. Worries, fears, a little pull. Something that leaves him feeling sick in the stomach. He's not sure what, but it gives him even more reason to lag a little behind. Clear of his sneering-grins, mocktailed eye-crinkles and horrible, horrible comments.

New Life

Reason for Becoming a Redeemer: Why? Why not. His motives are skewed, indeed. Propelled by vengeance, driven by the unfairness of his people and spurred by his inability to make any lasting difference—Fallon had nothing else to live for, and so, when Amaryliss and Ezekiel scooped him up from the noose, effectively forcing him to live, he felt as if he had no other choice. He could make no difference on his own. Trying to sate his conscience by killing those he thought were at fault had only dirtied his hands and destroyed innocent families. In more ways than one, his Joining acted as a buffer and a solid-turning point. It was something he could focus, and concentrate, on. All of the gray areas he struggled to identify were wiped clean. Only blacks-and-whites mattered, now. Sometimes, this causes problems with his allies and fellow companions, but it is much easier to deal with things when there are only two clear choices. Fight and live, or give up and die.

[*]The Changing: The very moment the liquid sifted past his lips, Fallon felt as if he'd been submerged in frigid water. Engulfing him in darkness, sucking at his ankles and dragging him


Ascending: (See: Intro Tab! Describe what the experience of consuming demigod blood was like for you. Again, different and personal, take yo artistic libertays.)

Abomination Experiences: Fortunately, he's never had to kill any of his changed-comrades, even when he was inducted. He has never seen another Redeemer change, nor come close to changing. He has heard countless stories on the matter, but has yet to compare stories to verify whether or not they are true to fact. Similar to the others, Fallon does not feel any kinship towards anyone who changes—woman, child, or man. He does not feel justified in their slaying either, but acknowledges that it is a necessary evil. He has, however, recently come into contact with citizens who have change, and did not hesitate in their slaying. He is changing. There is a growing dread that his companions might take things too far and lose control of themselves. He does not know if he could be the felling blade, and never wishes to find out.

So begins...

Fallon Rothilion's Story