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Name: Sparrow Kilaion
Pronunciation: Sp-ARE-oh Key-LAY-on
Age: 32 (As of Act Three)
Race: Half-breed Elf
Height: 5'8â
Build: Whip-lean; broad-shouldered.
Sex: Female
Sexuality: Pansexual
Class: Arcane Warrior
Appearance: You might've been expecting a slender representation of Elven lineage, all willowy angles and slender limbs. Sparrow was spared of those beautiful features, she's much rougher. She's not a small wispy thing. She has squared shoulders, built for carrying heavy burdens. Elegant in motion? Perhaps. However unintentionally, Sparrow walks and runs and treads with a harrowing predatory gait. There's a coiled spring in her step that promises immediate action, as if she's holding something back.
Often content to throw about smoldering looks and wretchedly wicked smiles. Hardly anyone is spared from her vivacious expressions. She's the handsomely dressed man idling in the doorway, twining her tapered fingers across the bejeweled bracelets jangling around her wrists. She's the unambiguous woman kicking her feet into the air, balanced across the wooden scaffolding above your head, like a little girl who's just so damn amused at what you're doing. Angled, swarthy features are paired with distinct, serious eyebrows, which shroud murky green eyes. If she were a horse, then Sparrow would have the flesh of a muted-brown bay. Ethnically bronzed: a wayfaring exotic prince. She will tell you that she can be anything and anyone you desire; female, male. It never mattered before, so why should it matter now?
For the most part, Sparrow appears deceivingly human, though you'd be ill-advised to make any note of that in her presence. What with the lack of general leanness and sad-looking ears. You see, they've been sheared halfway down and bear puckered scars along the soft, bowed ridges of cartilage. Crudely sliced off like knuckles of bread. Someone tried to remedy the situation by stitching them up. Now, they're about the size of an extended forefinger. Thin white scars run down her back and a hefty handful of sunspots freckle her shoulders.
Act Two: As of note, Sparrow has lost an alarming amount of weight, rendering her little more than a flighty bag-of-bones with sallow cheeks and sunken eyes. Battling an internal war with Rapture, who could care less about her vessel's well-being and health, Sparrow's struggled to keep herself from withering away to nothing. With her companions constant encouragement and support, she's managed well enough. Numerous scars and markings have appeared on her body, including a variety of burns on her inner thigh from Rapture's brief bouts of boredom. Her smiles seem a little forced, if not subdued. Glance her way, and that shit-eating grin will blossom like a weed. Her misadventure in the Deep Roads, however, have served her well. No longer does she wear tattered, mismatched outfits seemingly compiled by Kirkwall's sailors and street-dwellers. She dresses as well as she can afford to (in the conventional sense): but tends to be simplistic in it all, not one for great grandeur (because it isn't safe) though she does appreciate the boldness of colour. Her cloaks are always fastened by a cast-iron bird in flight. Unfortunately, her plates of armour have ceased fitting properly.
Act Three: With the help of her companions, Sparrow has regained her health and no longer looks like a shambling corpse. She's been given back what was hers. However slow her progress may be, she's come to accept that the persona she created is not, and cannot be, everything she is now. She is smaller than she was before, but still vibrates with an irrefutable strength. Given the weight she's lost, Sparrow's eyes appear larger and her face much sharper. Ironically, perhaps now that she's less masculine, she appears more Elven than human. Recently fitted with handmade Dragonhide armour, crafted by none other then Amalia... partially out of pity, she supposed, but nonetheless, she's found it surprisingly comfortable. She's allowed her hair to grow somewhat longer and has begun dressing in a less androgynous manner. She's still somewhat handsome, and definitely less alarming (and confusing) because of the frame she'd once had. She supposes that she's satisfied with how she looks, but it's still jarring whenever she passes by reflective surfaces. Looking so unlike herself.
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Demeanour:
Obnoxious little birds hardly perch for longer than a few moments, and Sparrow is no different. She walks a fine line between flightiness and a complete disregard for serious circumstances. Things that may shake up normal people may not affect her much at all. Her recklessness knows no bounds. She treads lightly on no one's feet. She stomps (and sometimes apologizes). While she generally lacks common sense in situations that call for it, she behaves as if she's always lived on the streets. Particularly if said situation involves planning beforehand. And what a loudmouth she is! Nearly unmatched when flapping her gums: her tongue is as sharp as a warrior's whetted blade. As thick-skinned as an elephant, she's capable of sloughing off insults with ease. Her retributions are often far more hurtful. She's a fighter. She's a survivor. She's an inventor, a dreamer, a creature who's muses never crumble.
The woman, not-woman is, and will always be, incredibly flawed.
She's a lofty grenade thrown through the gap of your car window, as you desperately try to wind it closed, landing squarely in your lap. She's a thundering concussive blast. She's collapsing buildings and debris falling from the sky like comets. She's a paroxysm. She's outbursts. She's the frothing bubbles shaking a pot's lid clear off, straight across the kitchen floor. She's fingernails digging straight through the ridges of your spine: shaking shaking shaking. She's unsymmetrical tiles driving your obsessive compulsive tendencies insane. She's a muddy, stick-infested nest huddled between the lining of your home that drives you absolutely nutters because they won't shut the hell up but there's something preventing you from knocking it down. In a way, it's beautiful. She's rusty nails being beaten, crookedly, into the knots of a wooden plank. She doesn't fit correctly. She's not a proper puzzle piece. She's a challenge to everything and everyoneâmostly to herself.
Sparrow relies on her natural charisma to capture sympathy and praise. She's perfectly capable of acting pathetic or clowning around in a bid to get what she wants. It's not obvious that she does this and only the most perceptive spirits could catch onto her wily games. She's not giving anything up, so even if you did confront her, she'd probably lie straight through her teeth. Her independence is contagious, glorious, admirable. It might even appear a little sad if she weren't so goddamn cheeky all the time, so evidently not lonely. She wants to splash a little limelight across your feet and she will willingly open her world to you: all you need to do is grab her hand and cross whatever fears you've been idling with. She says that she's discarded hers across the ocean like ash, which isn't exactly true. Her fears are many, though she would admit to none.
Act Two: Over the span of Rapture's presence, Sparrow's brightly-colored, hefty personality has lost its girth. There are no more rainbows. She's grown bitter. Very, very bitter. She's become quite the little actor, as well. Divulging her unhappiness to others would be beyond selfish, even for her. Living with an unwelcome guest scrapping its talons through her thoughts like it was pea soup has been increasingly difficult. Without her companions, she's sure she would've been done for long ago. Ever so, it feels as if her life means less and less as the days pass. She's become a danger to those she cares about and the mistakes she's made have been piling behind her. In her most personal times, she's prone to extreme mood-swings. A weepy, crying mess, and as soon as Rapture grapples the reigns from her fingers: frigid, cool and mercilessly cruel. She has distanced herself from her friends as best as she's able to. For now, that's all she's capable of doing for them.
Act Three: Much has changed since losing Sparrow's toxic sycophant. At the cost of Rilien's last prospect to retrieve everything he'd lost, Rapture was extracted from her person and killed by her own hands. Surrounded by her companions: faces she's come to know as friends, she did not have to face any of her sufferings alone. This has been a reoccurring theme in her life, as of recent. She is not alone, as she'd once believed herself to be. With each passing day, she grows physically and mentally stronger and given far more chances to right her wrongs. It's possibly the most difficult thing she's had to faceâmoving on and accepting things as they are, including herself. For once in her life, she's swamped by experiences she has no clue how to deal with.
Fears: What Sparrow fears most of all is losing the things she's come to care about: including people. Once you've acquired important things, friends, people you love. They become weaknesses, and tie anchors to your feet. Her companions has become a perch she does not wish to fly from. She wishes that things would remain the same: it's a cloying, childish feeling that she hates. Change, loss, abandonment.
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Opinions:
- The Chantry: Even if she has no solid reason to hate them, Sparrow simply does. If not for Rilien's sake, and what they've done to him. But she suspects it's truly because her own guilty conscience is screaming that she's done the same to him. Even so, it is easier to blame them.
- Mages: There's not much to say. They are now a part of her she's chosen to embrace. Primarily because of Aurora and her lessons, Sparrow has come to accept her abilities, and made many friends in the process. Her opinion of them is rather high.
- Templars: She has too much to say about them. Dirty blighters, skulking through the Gallows. She dislikes hiding from them, but understands the consequences of confronting them.
- Elves: Pointy ears, pointy elbows, pointy everything. As far as she's concerned, they're pretty creatures who often have no sense of humor. Certainly not the kind she's used toâdark, and full of sneering snarks. The Alienage, and all of it's inhabitants have taught her more than she's cared to know about Dalish culture. She still feels no kinship towards them.
- Dwarves: Honestly, the only Dwarves she's been exposed to was Varric and his associates. She likes him well enough and if they're all like him, she supposes she'd like them too.
- Humans: If they have sticks shoved up their arses, she doesn't like them. If they're like Ashton, Sophia, Aurora, Amalia, and Lucien, then they're alright. She's choosey about the people she likes, and it's no different with humans. Shorter ears, is all.
- Qunari: She has mixed feelings about them. Part of her wishes that things could have ended differently in Kirkwall, but she knows better than to delve on what could have been.
- Kirkwall: Nice sometimes and awful in other instances. If it weren't for her chosen anchors, her companions, she would have left long ago.
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Weapon of Choice: Sparrow prefers weapons used for brutality and savage strength. Something that could crush skulls, dent armour and rend arms limp and useless. Even if her movements are impaired with it's sheer size, Sparrow has found her lady-love in a large mace. It's particularly useful when affording direction to mighty blows capable of tearing through armour during combat: the flanged mace she uses has an eight-pronged steel head. The bottom of the shaft is wrapped in black leather for to improve her grip: it is also decorated with sea shells and various kinds of feathers.
Armor/Apparel:
Act One and Two: If we're not talking about her Qunari-crafted armaments, Sparrow appreciates metals and gems of all kinds, but her special fondness for gold shows in the many baubles wrapped around her wrists. She wears mismatched clothes belonging to gypsies and pirates and wayfaring travelers in her downtime, when she's not expecting to bloody herself up in combat. Her armour is something entirely different. It makes her appear larger, more imposing: frightening. It had been gifted to her by her Qunari kinsmen upon returning from her first battle, and it became her tool. Without it, they said, she would be soulless. It's steel had been folded several times over, giving it an opaque sheen. She wears a pair of loose-fitting navy trousers underneath. Her helmet is reminiscent of a Qunari's horns.
Act Three: No longer does she cling to her old Qunari-remnants, not that it would fit anyhow. Whether or not Amalia did it out of kinship or pity, she crafted her a set of armour unlike anything she's ever worn. Dragonhide leathers. Like segmented scales, light and flexible, and startlingly effective against errant blades and deflecting blows. Not to mention it fits her perfectly. She's thanked her before, but she can't imagine simple words will ever describe how many times the thing has saved her from certain death.
Combat Overview: How much damage does Sparrow inflict? You'd be surprised to know that she doesn't just bumble around, swinging her mace around like a drunk man totting a broken bench. She knows exactly where to optimize her brutality: to crush lungs, to burst livers, to suffocate you within your own armour. In close combat, Sparrow can be terrifying. Her speed derives from her physical structure. Her nimbleness comes from her elegant lineage and harsh upbringing. Her strength comes from within. Now that she's unbound by the Qun and it's regulations, Sparrow has become increasingly foolhardy when utilizing her magic, heedless of whose eyes watch her.
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Place of Birth, Nation of Origin: Elven Alienage, Tevinter Imperium
Social Status: Previously, among the Qunari, Sparrow was a basalit-an "honored thing." A warrior specializing in infiltration, her unit name is "undisclosed." Now, she's little more than a gifted thief, smooth-talker and residential trouble-maker. Slowly but surely, she's been making a name for herself in Kirkwall. Those who seek a warm-eyed companion, a hardy bodyguard or a substantially knowing information-hoarder need not travel far to find her tailing you.
Personal History:
If you haven't already guessed, Sparrow had never been her true name. It's unambiguous, unsuspecting, and prevalently androgynous in its origins. Sparrow could belong to a traveling man who's fluttering eyelashes could make women swoon after him. Sparrow could belong to a snarly woman kneading bread between her knuckles. Her name, originally, had been Papyrus. Named after an exotic blend of parchment paper from the furthest reaches of Rivain. So, even if Sparrow does not remember living in Tevinter's Alienage: she remembers her name. It is important to her.
She will not speak it to anyone and refuses to buy into conversations begging to know of her true origins. To anyone curious enough to ask, she was a traveler, a gypsy, a mystery, a beggar, a lover, a man, a woman, a person who came from nowhere. Her parents are alive and well, though she hasn't contacted them in ages. She can't recall why they had left the Alienage initially, but she can guess why. The threatening blanket of oppression had finally grown too heavy, too wearisome to carry. Their knees were buckling and the community was faltering under the weight as well. It was too difficult to carry on living in a cramped house, too hard to slither their way out of sight. She understood.
The years spent with the Dalish were magical. They treated them well enough. Though she still remembers feeling like a stray dog. It was in the way they were looked at. Pity bled there, in their eyes. Almost as if they were tiptoeing across eggshells Impish and naturally curious, Sparrow's insatiable appetite for the unknown took her into the woods past the Dalish encampment she'd come to know as home. Without her father's protective eyes roving over her, making sure she was present to wash up her hands for lunch. And without her mother's twinkling gaze, bright as the summer skies, willing proud butterflies through her stomach. Only the buzzing insects and anxious creatures scuffling in the underbrush accompanied her fastidious steps.
And they were her only companions in the dark, offering her consolation when she suffered. Silently, quietly. Hadn't it been for her owlish eyes peering from within the shrubs, she might have been overlooked. Luck hadn't been on her side that particular night. The humans, those dirty shemlen with their clubs and swords and leathers. They pulled her from the forest like they were extracting a tick from the back of their heels. Grasping thick swirls of her hair and pulling until she squealed and begged and criedâthey didn't let her go. For the longest time, Sparrow would never speak of what happened in those woods, and if silence could somehow swipe her memory of what occurred, she sorely wished it would.
Fate would have it that a band of Qunari stumbled onto their path. Or so Sparrow had thought at the time. She would never know whether or not they had been stalking the caravanâif they even cared that raggedy bandits were traipsing around in the woods, but they had blood on their minds and apparent intentions as to what they would do with them. With an ease that shook her to the core, the Qunari slaughtered half of the band and scattered the rest off. They moved as one: moving cogs all belonging to the same machine, eyes like the pieces of steel they held. Why they took her along with them remains yet another mystery she will never know. Even now, she doubted it was from sympathy. Perhaps, they saw something there. In any case, she was brought to the glades and given a new name: Meravas. Apparently it meant so it shall be. The irony would only strike her as she got older.
After years of molding a suitable persona, Sparrow became increasingly good at something intangible: lying. She possessed magical abilities. More so then that, an insatiable wanderlust. She tired of the Qun. It threatened to box her in. It placed limits on where she might go and even though she owed them everything and how come to know a new familyâit wasn't enough to keep her there. With a heavy heart, Sparrow left in the dead of night. Knowing that they would seek her out and paint her off as a traitor, expecting her to face execution with honor and dignity. That was something she would never do. Sparrow fled into the belly of Kirkwall, into a place called Darktown.
Act Two: The past three years have been interesting for her. She's made more friends in Kirkwall and somehow even managed to maintain them. In the same breath, she was boarded by the most dreadful, sadistic, super-bitch because of a mistake she made while hunting down a group of apostates. A small slip of the tongue that she can't seem to undo. It isn't something she cannot run from. For once in her life, Sparrow is unable to flee the country, flee until everything settles again so that she can start over. And she isn't so sure she'd want to given the choice. In the sordid city she's come to call home, Sparrow finally had finally been given the chance to renew an old friendship, and grow closer to the ones she's just made. Not to mention the fact that she's received news from Viscount's daughter, Sophia, that her childhood defilers are in the vicinity. Her monsters. Vengeance is tangible now. Dancing a jig in her palm. She can see it, it's close enough to touch. Somehow, she believes that it will make her problems disappear, and possibly dampen Rapture's hold on her.
Act Three: For someone as flighty as Sparrow, it surprises even herself that she hasn't flown the coop. With all of its flaws, Kirkwall, and it's residents, have become the closest thing she's been able to call home. The bonds she's made, retained and gained back are stiflingly complex. She's gone through great changes. Developed into a much better person. As small as her world is, it's growing at a startling rate. Her sights are on the horizons, though for once in her life, she's hesitant to leave the one's she's formed those bonds with.
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Glassy Sky
Obstacles
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Take Yours, and I'll Take Mine
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Mountains
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I Am Mine
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My Favorite Things
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Go
How You Remind Me
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Winter Solstice