// rule 001.     I’m max! 30+, white, & nonbinary. my time zone is pst ( pdt ), however I hold other priorities in working full time, freelance, and my own personal writing that take precedence, so activity will vary from time to time. I may make mistakes and, should you want / need to correct me, feel free to do so ( please do because I might not realize it and I would be forever thankful ). just note that I don’t respond to hate and tend to block / delete it. I don’t enforce reblog karma, however please please reblog from the source.// rule 002.     mutuals 20+ only pls! I am crossover, au, original characters, multifandom, and multimuse blog friendly. I try to look at everyone’s blogs and characters to see if I have an idea of how our characters could interact. but if I don’t follow you back, please don’t take it personally, I simply want a small dash with only people who will actually write with me.
⤷ i will block: terfs, truscum, transphobes, lgbt-phobic, racists, nazis, antisemitism, white nationalists, pro-israel, and zionists. pedophiles, MAPs, incest, ddlg content, pro-shippers. also personal blogs because none of you know how to act.

✱     i don't want these fandoms around my blog due to various obvious reasons: harry potter, attack on titan, stranger things, & helluva boss / hazbin.

// rule 003.     I tend to do longer threads, but shorter threads are always welcomed. starter calls are rare, so your best bet on starting a thread is through memes or attacking me through the dms. you are more than welcome to continue any response! please no godmodding, metagaming, powerplay, etc. though within reason i usually let it slide. memes will never have a time limit on them, so send them in whenever you want and however many you want. multiple threads are always welcomed and greatly encouraged! ic will never equal ooc as usual.// rule 004.     romantic shipping can happen, so it’s best just to ask if there's interest! with that being said though, I will never force a ship onto anyone. however, should a ship happen, I would like to ship with those who are 21+ due to my own comfort levels. multiship friendly, but I do practice ship exclusivity when it comes to canon characters.

✱     if you see characters being written that aren't on the lists, mind your business. but also feel free to ask if you want to write with any!

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Born into the Lavellan clan in the Free Marches, life was not always easy. Threats of Templars overrunning their camp was always on their minds, thus moving around was key. Though, to say the least, the clan made best with what they had. Unique as they were compared to other Dalish Clans, the Lavellan’s actually interacted with the humans by trading with them and even coming to respect them as a whole. Of course that did not make all their problems disappear, only simply lessened them. Those who found elves to be a bothersome aspect or even scared that their mages were going unchecked would always be a plague upon the clan. So much so that one run in had almost their entire clan killed.Templars, fearing their mages like always, came upon the camp. Zaahyr, being only three, was sheltered away inside a tree with the other children while everyone who was able to fight, would protect them. That was where his parents were. His mother, a mage and the clan’s first, and his father, a master of the clan were in the forefront trying to mediate the conflict the best that they could. No one was sure what set off the Templars first, whether it be the fact that they were elves taking up a commanding position in the discussion, or that there were more than one mage within the camp. Kirkwall’s Templars were always quick to anger, after all. Words soon became blows. Caught in the middle, Zaahyr’s parents did not make it out alive. His father, trying to protect his wife, was cut down while his mother, was brought down soon after. This was never hidden from Zaahyr, no matter how young he was. Keeper Deshanna told him all of what had happened and, in response, a change began to set within the boy without him even knowing.Zaahyr always had his future planned out for him the moment he was born. Showing a hint of magic within himself, Keeper Deshanna and his mother knew that he will be the next first and, hopefully, the next keeper. But, ever since his mother’s death, Zaahyr had unconsciously began to suppress his magic to the point where some were not even sure he had magic to begin with. Despite it possibly turning into a problem, Keeper Deshanna knew what exactly was going on and, instead, looked towards his cousin. Now, when his parents died, Zaahyr went to stay under the care of his mother’s twin sister and her daughter, Eilruana. Those two grew rather close instantly. She, destined to become the First now, even helped Zaahyr suppress his magic more so while he, on the other hand, would become her protector. Whether this was done subconsciously or not, his parent’s deaths shaped the way he thought and acted considerably. Never going far from Eilruana, the both of them were fast becoming inseparable. She was his other half, and vice versa. But, as Zaahyr was a hunter and she the First, they both had their duties to attend to before anything else. That was how they both ended up going to the Temple of Sacred Ashes that fateful day.It was only supposed to be Eilruana who was supposed to go for the clan, but Zaahyr couldn’t bring himself to see her off alone. Afraid he might lose her, he asked their Keeper if he could go with her as well so that she was not alone, also so that she held some manner of protection despite her knowing magic. That was the easy task. Their Keeper already had a feeling that that was going to happen, thus she allowed him to go with her. Now, to say something about their clan that was another reason why Zaahyr went with his cousin. Some Dalish clans speak fluent Elven. Rare, for the most part, but that was the Lavellan clan. Their second language was the common trade tongue and, since Zaahyr was a hunter and interacted with the humans more than Eilruana ever did, his grasp on their language was far better than hers. Thus, he would also be her guide. Yet none of them knew what they were going to be in for when they finally got to the conclave.When happening upon Corypheus, Eilruana was the first to take the orb into her hands. Though seeing that it was hurting her, Zaahyr was quick to try to push it out of her hands only to end up just like her. Both of them, with the sullied mark upon their left hands, were now branded as criminals only to soon end up as the Heralds of Andraste, and later become the two Inquisitors that would try to save Thedas. With the help of their companions, they would try their best to do what they can to make sure that is to happen. How they did this was that, for most of the work, it was split up between each other. Eilruana would keep to the diplomatic side of things while Zaahyr did most of the field work. At face value, it was working out, but the both of them needed to learn that the world was far bigger and grander than their clan.

personality. he tends to find humor in almost everything that he is presented with. in that same respect, he is quite slow to anger, where he would much rather find the good in things before seeing the bad. jokes, smiles, and laughter are his medicine and usually is not seen without either one of them as he goes through his day-to-day routine. though despite his want to joke around, he cannot stand being the center of attention in a large crowd. anxiety plagues him and seems to worsen with the idea of being in power, but beside that small hitch, he is seen as carefree that often likes to go to the beat of his own drum. other than that, he is fiercely loyal and should anyone find them in a close friendship with him, they should expect him there for good. he will try to do anything for people, wanting them to be happy, which does end up having him put everyone else before himself, but he does not mind as he finds their happiness to the key to his own.

appearance. wide and expressive eyes, a bright hue of amber with specks of green create a lovely color that still shines even when the night has fallen around him. a deep beige complexion with multiple scars scattered around his body. his hair is shaved on the sides, black hair is combed back in the middle with a small braid on the right side to keep it in place. a wide smile with straight teeth that is constantly being shown due to his demeanor. other than that, there is a deep scar that runs down his right eye and forks onto the middle of his right cheek ( ask about the story and you will receive an outlandish lie that changes every time as to how he got it ). he has black kohl on his eyelids and around the eyes to shield from the sun. his vallaslin is full body instead of keeping to only the face. there is a larger geometric design on his back ( which matches the one on his neck – almost to the point of resembling a tree ) with the edges coming up to hug his torso. most of the lines follow along his veins, but they grow sparser going down the legs and finally cutting off with a solitary line down the middle of his feet. the same can be said on his arms, where it cuts off with a solitary line down the back of his hand and a few sparse lines on the veins of his arms. most of the intricate work is on his torso, front and back.

• character studies.
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summary of dragon age 2 goes here (aka tba)

personality. a jokester that holds a positive outlook in life only because he forces himself to do so, thinking that if he ever fell into the pitfall that is his mind after everything he has been through, that he would never be able to get out of it. and so, he laughs, jokes around, is snarky and sarcastic, and will take things seriously only when someone dies ( but even then there are always exceptions ). he is able to take something seriously, but he just does not want too and often lives by the idea that life is short, so make of it what you will. in his time in kirkwall, he does not think he is going to live so long, thus he lives each day how he wants to live it. if that means making jokes and laughing at a sheep, then he will and he will have a good time doing it too. so, if someone calls him an idiot because he is not serious all the time, he will put them in a headlock and not let go for the whole day.

appearance. eyes are dark blue in color, expressive to the point where lying is easy for him. cool fawn skin tone, easily tanned in the sun, however scars and smatterings of freckles decorate his body. broad shoulders, thick arms and legs, it is a decent balance from his years of working as a farmhand. alongside that, he holds a good portion of hair on his chest, arms, and legs. Black hair, cut short, but sometimes grows to a length where it gets in his face from time to time. the amount of care he gives to it is a push of his fingers through it and nothing else. a stain of red smeared across the bridge of his nose that he bears every so often, a pinched expression of questioning to whoever talks to him before a bright smile and a loud laugh erupts forth.

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summary of dragon age the veilguard goes here

personality. tba

appearance. tba

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It is said that two deaths were needed for Maz'rur Drakon's birth. With how well he has succeeded within the arts of Necromancy compared to his colleagues, it is only a matter of time such rumors are placed about him around the Kingdom of Nevarra the moment he was inducted inside the Order of the Mortalitasi. Yet, some will ask, what deaths brought about such tall tales? First was the unknown Drakon, twin of Maz'rur. The healer speaks of a condition that is not common, but also not impossible where one twin cannibalizes the other within the mother. The only indication that it ever happened is the appearance of another set of limbs upon the birthed child. Although happy, and healthy, a pair of legs sprouted forth from the infant telling the story of a disturbing happenstance. Quick to sweep it under the rug, the legs were cut forth from Maz'rur's body and left within their place, a large deep set scar upon his side to forever remind the living. The second death was far more known for it was the death of his mother, Kierra van Markham, mere hours after his birth. There were no complications, none that the healer knew of to say exactly. It was in that same moment when the infant was taken from her by a nurse to be placed within his cradle for the night, she passed away without another word.Thus, Verald Drakon, was set to raise the child by himself. A noble man, politically minded, set Maz'rur upon the path to achieve far more greatness than he could ever in his life. A last name that serves one far better within Orlais, cousins to the famed van Markhams, distantly related to that of the Pentaghasts, there was still a chance for the Drakons to hold a fantastical title once more within Nevarra. In that same mind, when Maz'rur's magical abilities began to show at the age of three, Verald did all that he could to foster it in order for it to grow into something quite spectacular. No expense was spared. The only child in a world of adults, he grew into a rather quiet youth who spent most of his time either reading, or working with his tutors. For his father was no mage ( his mother was ) Maz'rur had various enchanters come to his aid within his youth to teach him how to control his magic. One of which being the Mortalitasi who was set to advise Verald on political matters, granting quite the bond between child and mage, thus securing Maz'rur's future career goal.It was not until he was just fifteen years old did he finally get the chance to study within the exquisite city of Cumberland in the grand College of Magi. There, he excelled in all matters of Winter and the arts of Necromancy, almost making him a sure pick for the Mortalitasi Order. With a recommendation from Senior Member Rodomonte van Heigl ( the very same Mortalitasi to have advised his father ) the moment Maz'rur exited the circle at the age of twenty-five, he was inducted within the Order of the Mortalitasi. Just like his years within the Cumberland Circle, Maz'rur made sure to excel in the Grand Necropolis as well. Rising steadily through the ranks, he became even more proficient in the arts of Necromancy as he learned the secrets of the Mortalitasi. No one was surprised that, at the age of 32, Maz'rur became a Senior Member under that of Rodomonte and the Prelate, Vestalus Pentaghast, himself. With his rise, he became the third adviser to King Markus Pentaghast with rumors of Maz'rur possibly taking Rodomonte's place upon his inevitable passing due to how close they have become.
There, as a Senior Member, rumors began to surround the Mortalitasi. With the King being of feeble mind and depleting health, many started to question the Mortalitasi's role as advisers. Passing whispers of them controlling him for their own deeds, that he has died just recently yet nothing was said about it, but Maz'rur would simply smile. The King is well, he would say and nothing more. Mere theories, or the gruesome truth, one may never know. For now, the Kingdom of Nevarra is on a steady rise to be quite the power to even rival that of Orlais itself. The Mortalitasi tend to their duties within the Grand Necropolis, even when the world seems to have torn itself asunder.

personality. Cold, calculating, and political minded. One would not call him warm nor welcoming for smiles are rare upon the man. Almost unsettling to speak too, one can find them questioning him and his purpose without really knowing why it sets them off. Suppose when one works with the dead, you lose a part of yourself in the process.

appearance. Always picked with care, the clothes that frame Maz'rur’s form holds a distinct air about them – nothing is ever out of place. Black is his main color of choice, yet sometimes hidden within that dark fabric is richly detailed embroidery made specifically for him, or a hint of color either golden, silvery, or perhaps dark greens and blues should he feel brighter. Such clothing varies, especially on days he works within the Grand Necropolis. Hoods and long cloaks cover him those days, with dark boots that do not mind should they get dusty within the deep recesses. Outside of work, he is bejeweled from his cloth belt that hugs his waist to each one of his fingers, as slippers cover his feet. Cloaks hang off his shoulders, but no hood is covering the neatly trimmed dark brown beard and groomed hair that is cropped short.

• character studies.
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• Threads.

Radu died, once. But unlike vampires, or even zombies, he did not come back as something else, something new. He returned as he was, but different. Everything was in place as he had remembered (much to his knowledge, but he was beginning to question even that), aside from the scar across his neck where he believes the killing blow was, all of him was very much the same. And yet, it was wrong. All of it was so very wrong like a slightly off-centered portrait upon the wall: it was not quite right, throwing everything off in the room. He had not the expert eye to straighten the painting, to scoot it to the left (or was it to the right?), nor was he sure that was even the problem. The more he ponders the off-centered portrait of himself, the shadows around him grow longer and longer, reaching towards him with sharp claws dripping with darkness. They inch closer, wanting to grab him, whispering crooning words of memories he fears to remember. But all the while, he stands. Staring at the portrait, thinking of how to fix it. Eyes glazing over, the picture blurs, the face bleeds shadows, and morphs. But he blinks, the portrait is back to relative normalcy in its off-kilter position on the stark white wall.What Radu does not remember is that he was born underneath a solar eclipse, or what his village called it, a dark star. Worse yet, it was during the middle of winter, where the winds raged, and the thick snows blanketed their lands. Suspicions arose, of course, there was not much else for the residents to do but speak of this event in hushed whispers within the flickering light of their hearth as the growing shadows gave them their attentive company. What small village that rested within the outskirts of any major town or city didn’t have their wandering superstitions that appear when something out of the ordinary happens? His parents weren’t of much note either, which often fuels these talks to wild speculations. They were simple sheep farmers who kept to themselves with their other two daughters who were two and five at the time of Radu’s birth.Much like the stories of curses, the bad happens upon the first wail of the child’s cry. Yet, that was not so in this village. It started with the winter extending itself, the new spring growth unable to push through the frostbitten earth, to a cough and a bad fall of an otherwise, seemingly healthy resident. Eyes would narrow in question, the suspicions that were once whispered by firelight, were now openly talked about within the village square. Yet the Duna’s were not unaware of these changes that happened gradually in their neighbors. They were not blind to the curious looks, or even the longer stares as if being watched. Nor were they deaf to the gossip that they had been cursed, that perhaps their ancestors had finally turned their back on them. Simple superstitions ran amok, to say the least. Things that befell people were now attributed to the birth of the dark star child that would have once been shrugged off or explained. Stillborn calves, flocks being the target of wolves, men growing ill, women growing barren, healthy children dying, crops growing wrong, food rotting in stores, and so on and so forth.It grew into a fervor. The people of the village demanded an end to their ills, a sort of justice to be done as they have done nothing wrong to deserve this. It was up to their leader to decide on what to do. To pray was his first answer: he would consult with their ancestors and the spirits of the earth to see what had brought them pain. It took him a day and a night before he came out of his house one morning, solemn in air with hands clasped before him, to a waiting crowd that drew in their breaths as his eyes scanned them all, as if seeing their souls laid bare before him. He was, after all, their arbiter of faith, logic, and reason. He proclaimed what the Danu family had expected: the sacrifice of their son Radu, who was by this time, fifteen years old. Hard not to see it before their leader called for it. Many within the village were already speaking of such actions, but in far more cruder terms.During the night when the leader was praying, the Duna’s put a plan into action. The mother, with the two daughters, would flee the village, leaving the father behind to either stall, or simply give those who pursued a false trail. Radu was supposed to go with his mother and sisters, and he did, for an hour or so to see them on the right path to the next town over. But during a rest, he told them he would scout to make sure no one was following them, yet he made his way back to the village where his father sat in his old chair next to the fireplace inside their house, awaiting the verdict. An argument ensued, his father wanting Radu to not only protect himself, but protect his family, yet there was a stubbornness in his son. He did not believe that those within the village would actually leave his father alone, and if his father was not going to go with the rest of the family, Radu was going to make sure the man survived.Radu was right, in that respect. As the leader called for Radu’s blood, he did not just mean the boy alone, but everyone who shared his blood. If the child was tainted, then the mother must also be tainted—and the father who gave her the seed. The crowd, a good two-hundred voices strong, clamored around the house, with the leader in front who asked calmly for the family to come out. They were not at the sentencing, perhaps they could be soothed into coming out on their own terms. So their reasoning was, but Radu and his father stayed silent, staring at the door, and waited for the inevitable. It came, eventually. The mob descended upon the house, Radu and his father readied to fight. And fight they did, well enough to take out twenty men before Radu was subdued and hogtied into submission. His father was nowhere to be found, but Radu fought the bonds, trying to look and yell for his father, but there were no answering cries.Seemingly defeated, he was taken to the village’s church, where an altar stood atop a dais with a golden bowl. Incense and the smell of hay tickled his nose as they brought him forward, dropping him on the steps. His bonds were loosened, but before he could run, they were upon him again, dragging him up the stairs and yanking his head back, his neck posed over the bowl. The leader called out to their ancestors, asking for their blessings as they had given the first death of the father, Eger, and the hunt of Sila, Rava, and Mila. Radu did not want to listen, his eyes kept to the circular hole in the ceiling and offered up his own pleas to those who came before that soon crested into fervent murmurings that were spoken in time to the leader’s own proclamations and prayers of self-interest.The cold of the jeweled knife’s blade pressed to the flesh of Radu’s neck stopped his voice. His body grew still, but the hand in his hair tightened. Radu looked into the eyes of the leader, seeing nothing but darkness infesting him. He smiled, then. Knowing. Radu was not the one who set the curse upon the village. There was none, unless one wanted to count the corrupt greed of the leader whose own hand was firmly in the pockets of a faraway lord. It was almost too obvious now. Radu started to laugh. The whole thing was absurd, and yet the more he laughed, the more the mob felt vindicated. No one innocent would laugh. But the leader, so close to Radu, was afraid for a moment. Radu liked to think it was fear for his own soul, but as the knife dug in deeper and swiped across his neck, all his thoughts turned to the color red that flowed so freely out of him, into the glittering gold of the bowl that shined so bright under the rising sun.Radu died to the sound of cheers, bleeding out into a bowl until it spilled out onto the altar, coating it red. He grasped the stone tightly, trying to keep himself upright as he felt the very life drain from his body. He heard the mob set out to join in the hunt for the rest of his family, but even if he tried (and try he did) to walk after them, to try to stop them, Radu only stumbled and fell upon the stairs. The leader was the only one who remained, bending down low to whisper, “Such a shame. Such a shame. You better hope they do not find your mother alive.” The shadows reached out toward Radu, the figure of the leader blurring as his eyes rolled. The blood eventually slowed, the leader walking away with calm, while Radu’s heart still.Radu Danu died alone upon the steps of the altar to his ancestors. Ancestors he thought were listening.Perhaps they were then.Perhaps they pitied him.Or, perhaps, they wanted him to suffer more.The grave they put him in was shallow and rushed. Radu clawed out of it with desperation, as the knowledge of why he was in there faded from his mind. Short of unneeded breath, he rose from the grave to a burned village and a familiar, cloying sensation. His hand went to his throat first without knowing why, feeling the soft raised skin of a newly healed scar. Jerking it away, he pulled himself the rest of the way from the grave and stumbled back. There was no sign of life around him. There were no houses that had been saved from the fire. Nothing.He was twenty. Five years had passed. But he came into this world grasping for something he could not find. Trying to remember something he had forgotten. All he knew was that his name was Radu Danu, and he had been killed. Once.

personality. Calm and mostly keeps to himself, he may seem a little reserved upon first meeting him, yet he will open up pretty quickly. Or, at least, that is what one will think. There is a darkness in his eyes that does not seem to catch with the smile that he offers to those he speaks with. Yet, despite that, he recedes into himself when anyone wants to know his past. Not for fear of them knowing, but mostly because he is not quite sure of it himself. He listens intently to others though and will often ask about their life, their story, as he is curious in nature.

appearance. The first thing many would notice is his height due to standing roughly taller than most people of varying races. There are many odd yet wondering looks pointed at him as he strolls into town. That is, if they are not frightened as he does cut an imposing figure with his broad build and weapon as tall as himself. Yet, passed that is an easy smile that never quite reaches the kohl-rimmed eyes. A dark, short beard covers his chin, and his hair is long and pulled back, away from his face. At the top of his head, his dark hair is braided in an intricate pattern that is then collected into a much larger braid at the back of his head. The end of his hair reaches the small of his back, rarely is it loosened from its braid.

• character studies.
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During the month of November on the 5th day of the year 1558, saw the birth of one Esen Karga, the second in line but the first born son of the Karga family in which it was planned that he would inherite his father’s dynasty and everything else with it. It felt right, for he was born under the reign of Sultan Suleiman the Magnificent who made the Ottoman Empire a formidable presence within the world that shook the core of both East and West because of what the Turks can do. Esen’s father, Mehmet Karga, a pasha (lord) and a mushir (advisor of military affairs) of the Ottoman Military, started a campaign for his son to follow his footsteps long before he was born, but all did not go as smoothly as the family would have wanted. Esen was head strong and wanted nothing to do with the military or really, anything within the empire’s political spectrum. He found it far too constricting and unwanting. The training that his father gave to him rather early in his life left the child scarred to the point where it solidified his feelings. Esen’s thoughts on the matter were of no importance to his family—he held no choice on his future, that was until his mother gave birth to another son. This one, named Orhan Karga, was the third and last son of the Karga line. Two daughters, two sons, they were lucky and so was Esen (to a degree). At the knowledge of a son being born, the father gave up on Esen in a state of abandonment and shipped him off to go live with his uncle, Serkan Karga, who was a wealthy merchant sailor for the Ottoman Empire; or so they have all been led to believe.So, at the age of 14 and with an education of a young lord, he became his uncle’s heir. The merchant business was not what Esen wanted to do (which, admittedly, he didn’t know what exactly he wanted to do in the first place) but he found it more acceptable than the rigded life a military officier had to offer, so he held a much more open mind on the matter. It wasn’t until his uncle had told him the secrets of his business did Esen finally realize what he wanted to become. Serkan Karga was not a merchant, but a pirate (or corsair) for the Ottoman Empire. He was highly successful, but he was not legendary. His living was made off of the ships he raided along the waters of the Mediterranean Sea, but never did he extend his reaches for he found his comfort in the never changing successes he managed to bring in. His silks, spices, what have you ever made it to the Sultan’s presence a couple times, so he felt no need to take a risk. Serkan was getting rather old though and he knew that he wouldn’t last as long as he had hoped, so he groomed Esen to be near perfection in his eyes—pushing him up to Quartermaster as the crew even took a shine to the rather charismatic young man. Then one day, during one of the many sea battles with a rich Portuguese merchent ship, Serkan fell to a cannon ball ripping through his torso. With their captain dead, Esen took up command and managed to retreat with minimal damage to both ship and crew. Once safety was attained, that was when the crew voted upon their new captain. In an unanimous vote, Esen became what his uncle hoped he would be, the captain of the ship, the Sultan’s Spear. He was 27 when he achieved that success, and for the next eight years, Esen would take his uncle’s kingdom and grow upon it to make it something far more grand than it had ever been before. He unofficially ruled the Mediterranean with extreme force and, when needed, with the utmost delicacy, even extending the reaches into the Black Sea to corner trade there—boosting the revenue up considerably. Esen was finally in control of his life and his past never seemed so further from him than it did, and he coudn’t be happier.

personality. Easy going, quick to smile, and rather flirtatious, he uses his charms and charismatic flair to bring him the upper hand in debates to even selling his cargo. Due to this, his anger can be rather surprising because he never outright shows it. Whoever goes away from their conversation with him will think that it went well, only to find their ship up in flames and their cargo stolen without a single shred of money to make up for it all. Despite all of that, Esen rarely uses violence as a means to control the situation or really, with anything, unless he has to. He finds it rather distasteful, which is perhaps due to his more proper upbringing than a pirate normally would have. He speaks well, dresses richly, and plays the Saz, which makes him a rather bright target when it comes to other pirates and the like who seek to damage the “prince” as if to make a point. Yet Esen manages to counter that with the militaristic training his father had instilled upon him, which he uses to his great advantage. He calls himself the lord or even the king of the Mediterranean, which can be true in many aspects, and that is something he will not easily let go of.

appearance. in esen's own words: he is perfect and the most beautiful man in the world. (aka tba)

• character studies.
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Nevarran by birth, yet he knows nothing other than all of Thedas itself. He had been an orphan since he was just an infant (just about 3 weeks old if anyone had to guess), taken in by the Chantry Sisters within the city of Hasmal and his parents have never been known to him, not even to the Sisters themselves. Of course there was some speculation, like there always is, that he is half elven with a human parent that could not bear the thought of bringing such a child into this world. Perhaps even a bastard, with a noble father who could not take him in and a servant mother that was too poor to care for him. There were many possibilities and a lot of them were told by curious Sisters whenever they found the child playing in the courtyards. Either way, Hawthorne grew older and was suspected to carry out a life of duty for the Chantry even if he could not join seeing as he is a man. But, despite what they wanted for him, he did not want that.He was always quiet. Never strayed too far from the Sisters who looked after him. Never complained about his life within the Chantry. Nor did he even fight back with any of the chores he was tasked to do. That is possibly why it came to such a surprise to learn that once the boy turned seventeen, he left in the dead of night. Taking only what he deemed was necessary for survival, he left the city without a word of why or even a small goodbye to those who had taken care of him for all those years. Some say that he was ungrateful, but for others, it seemed as if they understood. The boy was rarely a talker after all. He learned his letters and spoke two languages, but mostly kept to himself. After a moment of reflection, it started to seem like it was right. Some even speculating some more, giving into tall tales to fuel their slow days filled with prayer, that perhaps he merely just vanished. Leaving no trace, he was their little spirit to give him purpose once more. Yet those were all fallacies and simple rumors that never amounted to even one part the truth.Keeping with the name the Chantry Sisters have gave him, Hawthorne, he took another name: Oliveira, which was the last name of the sister he had grown the closest to. Could it have been a necessity that drove him to take her name, or was it something else? Fondness, perhaps? He speaks of none of that. To be quite honest, he speaks of nothing about himself. When people are curious of where he came from, he says he’s from Thedas. He does not stay in one place for too long and never takes up residence within a home to sleep for the night, even when offered a place. He spends most of his time traveling, always alone with a great sword upon his back and a pack filled with only the necessary components for living. He finds his home in the dense forests, the barren fields, the mountainous terrain; his home is Thedas. He recalls nothing from Nevarra as his, nor does he find a place within any religion. A ghost, some would call him. A drifter others would name him. Barbarian, the north would scoff at. Through and through, he is a nomad and he finds peace within that alone.Yet there is a change. Everyone feels it. Everyone can even see it. The sky is ripped apart and there is nothing they can do about it. A moment of panic and then it was over. One could almost say that the tear in the sky was quite beautiful to look at, especially at night when the moons shine through it. Of course Hawthorne has heard stories of the Herald of Andraste and how the Inquisition is going to set things right. That a blighted ancient magister has come to rule over them all and the only one that can stop him was said Herald themselves. What was there to believe? He takes it all in stride, but overall, it does not matter much to him. Though, even if it is only slightly, this change touches everyone. Even nomads who spend most of their time away from humans. The more he traveled, the more he had to start actually fighting to survive. It used to be just bears here and there, even the occasional highway robbery, but never this. Demons, Red Templars, rogue mages, even fanatics try to attack him like he had done something to ruin their lives. Still, he fights. He wins because there is nothing left for him to lose. He held a skill with his blade and he treats as if it was alive.Never did he have a true problem with it all until one particular Orlesian noble decided to cut him down thinking he was a bandit like the rest. Hawthorne, out of self defense, killed the noble and his party, but that was never taken lightly within the Orlesian Empire no matter how insignificant that man was to their court. Thankfully, or not, for him the Inquisition was also in the area. The family of the noble whom he had cut down went to the Inquisitor to solve this problem for them. Thus, the change in the world finally caught up with the nomad. The Inquisitor was a generous one, seeing as how the whole ordeal seemed rather drastic especially in this time, decided to let Hawthorne go on one condition: he would have to work for the Inquisition to redeem himself for his crimes. A light sentence, but one that needed to be shown to the family that he was being dealt with properly. Hawthorne accepted for that was the only thing he could do, and from then on, he became a companion of the Inquisitor.

personality. Quiet and reserved for the most part. He does not speak unless it is necessary for him to speak in the first place. Though, surprising as it may seem, he does hold a sense of humor. Playful banter and jabs at other people are usually what makes him crack a smile, perhaps even laugh. Being alone for so long, he needs to warm up to other people and it takes him a long while to do just that. Thus, he stays in the background for the most part. Feeling out of place in a lot of instances, he might even come across as a little bit awkward until he’s comfortable again.

appearance. His eyes, against the darkness, there is the bright green that shows his emotions. It is what usually draws people to him. There are times where people might even start to think they glow as well like an elf’s eyes. He does have a minor point to his ears; though they look human there is that slight change. Usually they are covered by his shoulder length hair, so it is quite unnoticeable. Besides that, underneath his clothes is a series of markings upon his skin. Tattoos, as we would know them by (yet some think it is not entirely ink), they span down his arms and across his shoulder blades. The meanings and what they exactly are only known to Hawthorne. These are rarely seen as is, thus he never gets questions much to his liking.

• character studies.
• Aesthetics.
• Threads.

He witnessed the fall of an empire with steady eyes, vowing to see out his service with nary a bit of hesitation in his step as he descends into the Land of Shadow. Yet once a knight of Leyndell that rose quickly through the ranks, he among others caught the eye of Godwyn the Golden for his own personal guard when the demigod began to come into his own. Now, a knight in service, followed close on the heels of Godwyn against the dragons. A war that would change the course of history, bringing peace and the dragons back into the gold of the Erdtree, and establishing a cult within the very capital. He, like the rest of the guard, began to train in the art of the Ancient Dragon Cult, leaving behind the Golden Order incantations for a far more brilliant shade of gold.Yet not all was to remain as such. The Night of the Black Knives still runs a chill down his spine by mere mention alone being the death of his lord. Godwyn was not the only one who had died that night, but many of the personal guard against the Black Knife assassins as well. The prowess of the latter won out in the end, but how were there survivors? Some of the personal guard ran, blackened by their cowardice to never be among them again, while others crawled, dragging their wounded forms along the stone floor, too late to help. Iuste was one of those, as the assassins made their escape, he saw the corpse of Godwyn and the cursemark embedded deep within his back. The once bright eyes rolled up, black puss rolling out, and Iuste moaned the loss. Four yet remain of the personal guard, who, once cured, stood their vigilance still around their lord's corpse. It was only when he was buried, soul forging anew within the roots of the Erdtree, did the knights begin to change as well.To be one, they donned their own Death Masks and gilded their helms with a golden circlet of their lord's rune, forever in mourning. But death changed as well, rotting and twisting, their lord's body warped the roots and brought about Those Who Live in Death ( the Shattering is but a curious thing among it all ). No longer in mourning, but simply waiting, keeping to their duty of protection, the Death Knights scour the Lands Between in search of Godwyn, the Prince of Death. One knight stands within the depths of Stormveil Castle by the cadaver surrogate there ( fallen in battle in some unknown way ), while the last three descend to the Land of Shadows to protect the surrogates they find there.Only two remain out of many, awaiting the Age of the Duskborn.

personality. Loyalty that even death does not touch ingrains itself deeply within him. He takes his duty to heart, making it his blood and life to continue on. He is stubborn in this, little sways him from his path, not even his own curiosity. But he is friendly, surprisingly, one does not be a personal guard of Godwyn without knowing how to talk to people; yet there are limits when it comes to him, especially after centuries of service and finding no respite to the rise of his lord, he becomes more solemn in nature.

appearance. tba.

• character studies.
• Aesthetics.
• Threads.

(tba) Suhani gave her all for her clan. Even if that meant sacrificing her life as the second to the Keeper to join the Grey Wardens. Never knowing life outside, she was dealt the hard lesson of what living truly was meant to be. Suhani is the Dalish Hero of Ferelden who, despite being a mage, was kept with her clan and not given over to the Circle. Choices made: Urn of Sacred Ashes not poisoned. Helped Redcliffe, Connor is alive and not possessed. Peace between werewolves and elves. Defeated Branka and destroyed the Anvil of the Void. Bhelen rules Orzammer. Mages were supported. Anora rules Ferelden. Killed the Archdemon. Killed the Architect, and Nathanial is still alive. All party members were helped and stayed alive; individual results are up to the thread.Suhani has lived to see the end of the Fifth Blight, coming out of it alive and a hero, but she wants nothing of it. She has disappeared from the public conscious, uncaring about what plagues the world aside from helping any elves she can manage, and finding a cure for the Taint that still simmers inside of her, waiting for the day to take root in her brain and call her down into the Deep Roads. As a friend of Merrill, she can be seen off and on within Kirkwall if one can catch her. Beyond that, the Inquisitor can ask for her help, and depending on where she is, how she feels, and the Inquisitor in general, she may visit Skyhold

personality. Suhani is quiet when needed, respectful when she thinks the person deserves it, but she can have quite the mouth on her when pressed ( especially towards humans who are less than kind to elves ). Yet, for the most part, she is kind and often rather attentive to other people’s needs. She was trained to be a Keeper, thus she uses many of those skills in her day-to-day life, often putting her own needs to the backseat and will not deal with them until everyone else is taken care of first. In other respects, she loves to learn and so she is curious in nature. Her questions may bring some fondness or annoyance towards her, but she will not pester when she knows that the other person perceives her as such. She is steadfastly loyal and yet, sometimes rather unforgiving, it really depends on the person and who they are to her.

appearance. Her skin is a tawny brown that warms golden in the sun, but there is more to it than just that. Along each limb, painted across her back, down her chest, and up to her face, there is an ornate tattoo sprawled there in black ink received in honor of the god she dedicates herself to. It does not take away from her sharp features, with wide expressive eyes of the greenest color, shining even in low light. Her hair is brown, framing her face and pulled into a braid or two that reaches her lower back. Rarely is it loose, and when it is, she takes her time in twisting it back into place, granting it an importance more than one may initially think at first. Her lips a cupid's bow, difficult to make smile, but easy to frown with a furrow of her brows that give a crease in the middle of her forehead. She has all the same distinctions of an elf, with a long nose and long, pointed ears that poke out from where her hair moves around them naturally, but she sits at an average five feet of height. She gravitates to jewelry, but she does not wear a lot even when given the chance to do so. A necklace here, bracelets there, even so much as hair ornaments or even earrings, as they often correlate with whatever she is wearing. She keeps to long skirts, no shoes, and a more flowy, easy to maneuver sort of outfit, for the long hours of sitting and reading.