Fandom 𝕯𝖊𝖊𝖕 𝖎𝖓𝖙𝖔 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖊𝖆𝖗𝖙𝖍 𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖞 𝖋𝖑𝖊𝖉, 𝕬𝖜𝖆𝖞 𝖋𝖗𝖔𝖒 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝕷𝖎𝖌𝖍𝖙. ⋄ canon-divergent retelling of DA: Origins

[knavish]

Chanter's Board.​

Hey there! I'm Knave! I'm in my twenties and I'm on the east coast of the US. I've been roleplaying for about 12 years. If there's anything you need to know before we get into rp, shoot me a pm and we'll chat.

ACTIVITY ⋄ My schedule alternates often. You can expect one or two nights a week of two to three replies, and I may take unannounced hiatuses. I'm cool with ghosting, obviously - if you ever want to pick the rp back up, just shoot me a message. You don't have to explain anything!

LITERACY ⋄ I average around 500 w per post, but it varies depending on where the plot is at. I struggle more with being concise. I appreciate quality over quantity in replies and, while I love internal monologue, I need there to be something concrete for my character to reply to. If I give you a reply that you struggle with, do let me know and I'll rewrite so it incites better interaction.

GENRE ⋄ I prioritize character-driven plots and relationships over combat or intrigue. The character I'll be playing for this is a gay Tabris, but romance isn't the only thing I'm looking for. I'm happy to write platonic relationships - a friend, family member, or rival - as long as the emotions between the two characters are intense.

DOUBLING ⋄ We can hash out whether we want to divy up the pov or split the control for other characters, but I can't do a canon character's pov justice for an extended period of time unless I'm very comfortable with them. I'd prefer you main a character you really enjoy writing.

CANONS ⋄ This is canon-divergent, so any character or plot within the DA universe is on the table. You wanna play Solas, groggy from waking up early? I'd be so down with that. Some characters / origins I'm particularly interested in playing against are Shianni, Mahariel, Brosca, a Twin!Tabris, Zevran, Sigrun, Velanna, Merril, and Fenris. Refer to the above statement, though, and remember that I really love other people's oc's.

RATING ⋄ This is Origins and I've tagged it as horror for canon-typical reasons; this will be heavy with mature, triggering themes. My character's plots and background involves child abuse and permanent injury, systematic injustice, and ethnic cleansing. Please be 21 or older. If you have any concerns or specific triggers, please bring them up while we're plotting.

PLOT ⋄ The general idea behind this is that each of the P/C origins was recruited and that some of them miraculously survive Ostagar without Flemeth. We're under no obligation to follow the plot of Origins, but the world will continue to be affected by the HoF's choices and the encroaching Blight if we don't. We can use the starter if it interests you, but feel free to suggest something else! I think that's it! Either drop a reply or a pm if you're interested. C;

In Darkness Eternal they Searched
For That which had Goaded them on.​

Duncan, Commander of the Grey in Ferelden, has been gathering more recruits in recent years - a boy who was nearly a Templar, the last scion of Highever's arlship, a blighted Dalish warrior, a casteless exile - in preparation for the King's stand against the Blight at Ostagar. The last two recruits are from Denerim; a fast-talking pickpocket and an elven archer that loathes Duncan so completely that his fellow recruit learns to bite his quick tongue during the long walk to Ostagar. Unfortunately for the Wardens, it's Tabris that survives the joining and not Daveth.

Despite his precautions, Duncan's efforts are doomed to failure. Almost every Warden perishes in Ostagar.

But Flemeth's intervention is not the only thing that saves those lucky few - while Alistair and one other make their way to Lothering on the witch's advice, some others have escaped the carnage and make their way through the wilds alone. Perhaps they encounter each other, or perhaps one of them encounters someone else entirely...

▽​

Had someone told Seysil that he'd miss the semi-constant drizzle of rain that characterized Ferelden's brief summers, he would have (forced and bitterly, angrily) laughed them off. He'd spent most of his childhood waiting for Summerday and that scant week-or-so on either side of it that existed between the bone-deep cold of winter and the season of unending piss.

It was just the Alienage's luck; spend eight months out of the year padding the walls with as many rugs as you can produce and you'll find yourself wringing them out on the step the remaining four - or at least until your step sinks below the mud. All the filth flows downhill from the Arl's estate, pools in the levee they insist is a wall built for your safety. 'Flushing the rats into the River Drakon,' he'd heard someone remark, once.

This two-week drought was unprecedented. Unnatural. 'Cause he wanted it, Eys thought, was the reason it wasn't coming. Rain was fickle that way. Played coy.

It was just one more way the world felt tilted on its axis. It didn't bear thinking about.

He was picking his way through a clearing in the forest - either the Northernmost reaches of the Kocari Wilds or the marches of the Brecilian - and lamenting a shallow depression in the ground, barren of vegetation save for a few hardy clumps of prairie grass, sprouting up through the hexagonal cracks in what ought to be the silt of a small pond. It was difficult to say what expression he wore beneath the wash of blood on his face, though the colors he wore were unmistakable; this lost, lone elf was a member of the Grey Wardens. Traitors to Calenhad's line in the eyes of half of the Bannorn, though he was not yet aware of this lie.

Eys exhaled through his nose and pressed on. He was doing his best to ignore the twinge of the gash in his side and the darkspawn blood seeping into his skin and scouring worse than any caustic lye.

He couldn't do anything about the ragged punctures left by the genlock mace that glanced his ribs until he could access his pack, couldn't access his pack until his hands were clean and he wasn't going to contaminate any of the precious resources it had protected from this latest bloodbath. He needed a generous source of water before he could do anything.

The tavern song he was humming died on his tongue and the drone of insects in the brush fell silent with the snap of something heavy coming down on a fallen branch; something was moving in the forest, obscured by the treeline, though he didn't know if it was man, beast, or worse. He ducked into the thicket as quietly as a city boy could manage and reached for his axe, holding his breath and cursing himself for not stringing his bow as soon as he woke.

 

[knavish]

bump + my character for this

Name :: Seysil Tabris
Aliases :: Eys [ pronounced “Ace” ] , Tabs , Tabby Cat , Stray Dog of Denerim
Date of Birth :: 17 Harvestmere, 9:08 Dragon
Place of Birth :: Denerim Alienage, Ferelden
Gender :: Male
Pronouns :: He/Him
Species :: Elf
Class :: Rogue
Orientation :: Gay
Alignment :: Chaotic Good
Affiliations :: Grey Wardens of Ferelden, Friends of Red Jenny

PUT YOUR ARM 'ROUND MY COLLARBONE
AND OPEN THE DOOR

DON'T LIE TO ME
IF YOU'RE PUTTING THE DOG TO SLEEP​

APPEARANCE

dark/steel blue, wide [ eyes ] ,
auburn, thick/unruly, 2B [ hair ]
fawn, freckled/mottled [ complexion ] , 5’5” [ height ] ,
ectomorph, prominent biceps [ build ]​

He has a very distinct, expressive face, but not an especially attractive one by common Thedosian beauty standards. While he's of average height for a city elf, malnutrition has left him awkward in ways he can't grow out of; his face is very narrow in the brow and jaw, but wide in the cheekbones, leaving him with crowded teeth, asymmetrical features, and a dramatic diamond shape that accentuates his gauntness. His eyes are wide and down turned, with high, sparse brows, and a shallow, slightly upturned nose.

The Maker painted him in vibrant, saturated color, however; he has a warm beige complexion heavily mottled with vermilion freckles. His eyes are a dark, intense shade of blue. He has brick red hair - a lot of it - that grows in wavy at the roots and twists more dramatically at the ends. He usually piles it in a high, wildly voluminous ponytail, but he's been known to sport a similarly uncooperative mullet in warmer climes. If he manages to survive to forty, he will have gone completely grey by then.

He possesses the same spare frame found on a good proportion of city elves, lean by nature and emaciated by a lifetime of thin, inconsistent meals and a weak appetite. His ribs and vertebrae can be counted; his elbows are sharp, hands boney. While the Blight will build more muscle on him, he’ll trade poor nutrition for an altered metabolism and struggle to gain weight over the course of his life.

[ Distinguishing Features ] His right ear is jaggedly cropped, missing an inch of length. More of the shell is intact on the bottom than the top, giving the illusion of having one long ear up and one short ear down. His remaining ear is wide and curves more dramatically outward than most elves.

He's heavily freckled, with higher concentrations over his face and shoulders. In certain places, the spots are so large and dense they seem more like port wine stains than freckles.

He's been scrappy his entire life and he's not precious about his health or appearance, so he boasts quite a few scars, but some are more notable than others. He has a crosshatch of scars on the left side of his face - one runs over his temple and into the corner of an eye, the other begins above his brow and disappears into his hairline, around the temple. There's a puckered gash to the right of his Adam's apple, with a mess of haphazard scratches under his chin. There's a hand-long laceration left by a broadsword over the outside of his right thigh. His teeth are sharp around the canines, and he’s missing two [ left lower central incisor, left lower lateral incisor ] and three more are chipped [ upper right canine, upper right first bicuspid, upper left lateral incisor ].

PERSONALITY​

Most of the people who knew wild-hearted Adaia in life would say her son takes after her - including Seysil and Cyrion - but in truth, the core of his personality overlaps more with his father's. They share the same dedication to their own, the desire to shelter what they care about from harm, the same fear of loss. The difference is that Cyrion is subtle, tactful about this devotion, and Seysil is not.

There's a raffish quality to Seysil Tabris that's difficult to put a name to. When things are going well for him, he's respectful, but rarely restrained, and never refined. He's the sort of man who's knowledgeable about a truly bizarre potpourri of subjects and enjoys bullshitting about topics he has no authority on despite that [ a favorite vhenadahl game of his was delivering blatantly incorrect information in a complete deadpan. Because he's among the oldest of his peers he was often believed, and this had spectacular results ]. Unless he has misgivings about someone, he's generally kind and open-handed with strangers, willing to sacrifice his time and wealth to offer a hand up as long as it doesn’t put friends and family in a tough spot. Towards those he loves, he’s tolerant, playful, openly affectionate, and deeply protective.

But when it’s ugly, it’s very ugly. Sensitive and emotionally volatile, a feeling can come fast, intense, and dominate rational thought - when he’s laughing, that’s not a problem, but when he’s angry he’s furious, waffling between withdrawn and explosive unpredictably, and when he’s sad he’s despondent and prone to bouts of inconsolable tears. He’s aware and self-critical of this problem, as well, but struggles to improve. Talking through it never helps - the more overwhelmed he gets, the less he’s able to articulate himself, and the more likely he is to redirect it onto someone who doesn’t deserve it. The best he can do is point it at darkspawn until he’s spent or climb a tree and take a smoke break when there aren’t any darkspawn convenient.

And of course, he’s severely proud. But he doesn’t see a problem with pride, considering how hard the world has worked to strip him of it. He’s only willing to swallow it for those he loves, which makes him difficult to contend with once he’s made up his mind about something.

// brave, reliable, nurturing, genuine, determined, resourceful, considerate, selfless // [ positive ]

[ negative ] // proud, overemotional, unforgiving, jaded, domineering, overprotective, self-sacrificing //​

SPECIALIZATIONS​

He is functionally an archer that specializes in guerilla tactics. It’s his foundation, it’s what he’s best at. That doesn’t mean it’s what he uses. He’s a very reckless, brutal combatant, and because he’s constantly neck-deep in the action he takes more hits than your average rogue. He figures it doesn’t matter, as long as he’s dishing out worse than he gets.

[ Night Elf ] The Night Elves were a covert operations unit of archers under Loghain Mac Tir’s leadership during the Ferelden Rebellion. As the name suggests, it consisted entirely of elves, who were chosen for their superior low-light vision, and its primary function was to sow terror among the chevaliers. Adaia set many bolts on the Orlesians before Maric took the throne, but when her unit was disbanded she laid down her bow - she was marrying a doe-eyed boy from an Alienage, where elves were not permitted to bear weapons, and she couldn’t persuade him to leave. Of course, with the woman who wielded the Fang of Fen’Harel, there was always a trick, and the trick was thus; she laid her bow down where Seysil might find it.

Adaia hoarded tools and weapons in caches around the city and passed her skills onto her son in secret, believing he could benefit from the discipline of martial arts and unwilling to watch him suffer the abuse humanity heaped upon them without means to defend himself. Seysil learned to make his surroundings his first weapon. Given time to prepare, he’ll create traps that corral his quarry into an ideal location and pick them off from a great distance, under the cover of night. If the enemy is intelligent, he’ll leave a few alive to tell the tale; the goal of a Night Elf isn’t to eradicate, it’s to frighten and disorient.

[ Street Fighter ] Seysil’s education under his mother ended when she died at human hands. Frustrated with what he believed to be complacency in his family and neighbors, he ran away from home and made Friends elsewhere. Most of his skills blended nicely with the things Slim asked him to do, but there was work on offer that couldn’t be tied up neatly by playing the cat burglar or sniping some pomp from twelve yards away.

He developed his style for close quarters combat in the poor quarter, scrapping with thugs in the employ of a loan shark with more proxies than scruples. His mother had taught him how to use her short sword, but it was never the focus of their sessions - so, instead of throwing himself at those mercenaries and hoping for the best, he took her other lessons and tried to translate them to a different medium. In the same manner that he adapts an environment to himself, he’ll try to stack the odds in his favor, wearing his opponent down with bleeding and bludgeoning damage. Once they’re exhausted, he’ll catch a shoulder or a hip with the hook of his axe and puppeteer their movements, pulling them into Fang. It’s not polished, there’s no clockwork choreography or uncounterable maneuvers, but it’s methodical, brutal, and allows him to contend with much larger opponents.

INVENTORY​

[ Equipment ] Grey Warden Scout Fatigues :: Lightweight armor worn by the more mobile members of the order. Consists of a blue gambeson and jacket, a chainmail shirt silenced with runes, a steel plate chestplate, archery tabs, and a wool hood and cloak. // Adaia’s Boots :: Elven knee-high leather sandals, with the typical lack of soles or toes, delicate leaf-and-frond embroidery up the sides. He laces these over winter boots in the colder months.

[ Primary Slot ] Rebel Bow :: This 6' whitewood bow creaks with age despite how lovingly it's been maintained. There's a smith's mark near the nock that identifies it as standard comission for Ferelden soldiers during the Rebellion.

[ Secondary Slot ] The Fang of Fen'Harel :: An Elven viridium shortsword dating back to the Dales, allegedly wielded by an Emerald Knight who passed it down her lineage. // Grey Iron Axe :: Commandeered from the Arl of Denerim's estate.

[ Other Items ] Wedding Ensemble and Ring :: Generations old and terribly fragile, the blue dye has faded and the seams are fraying, but this open-chested white robe with silk trousers and sash is nothing short of elegant. The ring is new, a plain silver band. // Two Injury Kits, three health potions, one vial of acidic coating, reed cigarettes, dried elfroot and pipe, various shrapnel, triggers, and explosive powders. // Dwarven Puzzle :: A modular puzzle made of cedar and brass.

[ Conscription Ale ]

OTHER SKILLS AND LANGUAGES​

Marksmanship, CQC, Sleight of Hand, Lock Picking, Trap Manufacture, Mending and Repairs, Stealth, Free Running & Climbing, Intimidation & Blackmail, Provisioning, Childminding, Cleaning, Caligraphy & Forgery, Trade/Common, Ferelden Thieves Cant, Limited Elvhen

 

[knavish]

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[knavish]

hi it's march. bump

 

[knavish]

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