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Mun and Muse are 21+
Name: Arawn. Introduces himself as Doren Ailell
Age 85 (early middle age for an elf)
Male
Elf
Mage (Arcane Warrior / Spirit Healer)
Specializes in healing, works on his archery
Height 5'6" and slim
General Appearance:
Arawn's genetic roots are from a Rivianai father - thus the seemingly dark tanned skin, long dark braided hair and eyes.
His skin is relatively unmarked by signs of age and battle as his abilities first heal himself before others. His body appears to be much younger than his actual years and he wonders if the Quickening has been 'healed' by his abilities.
Personality:
Arawn is gruff and reserved in most cases. He grieves the death of his wife and the separation from his daughter. He can smile and laugh, but if it's not sarcastic at himself, then real ones are rare.
He is a kind man, one of few words, but many thoughts.
Background:
Arawn was used by the Keeper of his Clan to provide genetic diversity - a purpose he soon grew to hate as his children, except for the last, were withheld from him. He was loaned out to procreate, thus earning his clan favors. As a healer, he was able to help ripen the recipient's body and assist with the impregnation. This worked until he became Tainted and was forced to become a Warden to 'save him' and leave 'home'. Angered at the lie, he knows he is not saved and should have died at the Joining, the only thing holding him back from death is the spirit inside him, as he was unfit for the Joining.
Arawn's purpose in life - increasing elvhen numbers and being the First of his Clan - has been lost and he doesn't know what to do next. Feeling rejected by his clan, he calls himself Doren Ailell, which means 'Exiled One'.
Since he's been traveling, Arawn has been studying these elvhen ruins, that they've been cleaning out, and learning about the pre-history of the elves. Perhaps this is his new purpose?
His back is/was once covered in nature tattoos, [If past tense, then he has been tortured by Templars, skinning the ink off of him - much, much pain!] Templars and cities frighten him, making him more defensive and difficult.
Writing Sample:
Excerpt from Arwan's story where he was the Warden:
Arawn had had half a mind to slit this Duncan’s throat, but he had needed to know what the cure was for this illness, and not just for himself. Yes, it was something real, he could feel his healing turn inwards, making him want to chew off a limb just to be rid of the poison, should it be isolated in an arm or a leg. No, he hadn’t asked the Keeper stupid questions about the reality of the malignant presence, at least, did not argue about that. But Duncan, he hadn’t said anything, and the whole trip to Ostagar had been agonizing for Arawn as his talent had turned against the invader of his magic and body. However, the Warden’s cure hadn’t been one at all. The additional poison slammed into his body, the external form and vessel for his soul and psyche, causing damage to the already strained links that connected flesh, mind, heart, soul, and Fade.
It had taken nearly all of his body’s resources to contain and control the poison, to keep him alive after having taken that massive cup.
There was nothing left to save in Daveth and the pompous ass, turned cowardly shemlen certainly saved his wife and child, by bleeding all over the the stone. Waste, except to feed the ravens and the wolves. Talent and pragmatism had been devoured by the cup, and cowardice exalted, given a simple and clean death. Shemlen - he would never understand the creatures.
Some cures were worse than the poison. Right? With his veins still burning with it, Arawn did not believe that it was the case this time. He could only hope he learned some way to unlock the chains of that Tainted blood from himself, and use that information later. After hearing that the Wild’s Flower was used to keep the hounds from dying of the darkspawn blood it swallowed, he’d gathered all they saw, even digging up some of the bulbs from immature plants. Perhaps a cure would be found there.
To top it off, the witch’s daughter was foisted off on them and the bloody Warden was crying when he thought he was not being watched, positively sniveling. Mythal must have sent the hound, who seemed to remember him - and at least the witch and the young shemlen didn’t bicker while saving the thing from a squad of darkspawn. But when they reached Lothering and his head was yet still pounding from the cup, the poisoned arrows, and a good sized egg on the back of his head, something in him snapped in the face of the bandits and the subsequent argument over where to go. He couldn’t get rid of them, any of them, not even when blondie started chatting up a red-headed priestess and invited her to tag along, then the girl opened up a cage letting out the ugliest being on two legs, outside of an ogre, of course, and invited it - him - along. The man had eyes like a Qunari and he wonder if they mated with humans.
The worst part was they looked at him like he knew what he was doing, like he knew something they didn’t, like he had a great plan that was going to save them all - everyone that is except for the Sten creature and Morrigan. The only two-legged ones he didn’t feel bad about saving was the dwarf and his son. The man was cheerful without being grating and the simpleton of a boy... A child, that child, needed a parent, at least one, and there was no mother in sight. And that child on the bridge, the wolves ate his mother... They weren’t his responsibility. He should have known that some of them would become so.
Of the two ideas presented, Flemeth had backed Alistair’s plan, making it suspect because the hairs on the back of Arawn's neck stood on end when he looked her in the eye. And as much as he liked the sound of tearing down the walls of Denerim to get to Loghain, he had to go back to the forest. Let Alistair think it was all for the treaty and if they happened to find Dalish clans that weren’t leaving the area, great. If not - sending a prayer to Andruil and rubbing a finger down the vallaslin on his nose - Arawn had a body to find and a tree to plant.
...
Some dialog from his story - after Werewolves are taken care of:
This late the pool was generally empty, but the day and Fen’Harel had another trick to play on him. The hound either decided or neglected to warn him, or in the mabari’s defense, perhaps he did, but Arawn’s head was under the waterfall. Wiping water from his eyes, Lanaya was already half way across the pool swimming towards him.
Patience was already at a premium, and he had little to spare for the young Keeper.
“Keeper, it is late,” using her new title to increase the social distance. Unfortunately, it might also remind her of the duties and responsibilities he was fairly certainly she’d come to talk about, especially in light of the delicate flowers in her hair that was all braided up. Several curses leapt to mind, unfortunately, the first one was probably what she was looking for. Hystlen [Fuck].
“Or maybe it’s early,” her smile was shy as she bobbed in the pool, tops of her small breasts uplifted and buoyed by the water.
It was best just to have it done, to keep his own temper, from surfacing, one that stemmed from worry and sorrow. “Regardless of the hour, what may I do for you, Keeper?”
“Well, um...” Taking a deep breath, “The curse killed so many and the clan is small and I thought...”
“You thought that I could assist you with this problem.” All he had wanted was some sleep, a bit of peace, feeling small and spiteful. It was worse because he actually liked her and she would be a good Keeper. She, unlike her mentor, actually cared about the clan, even to the point of carrying some of their burdens, so to speak. “I have a Bonded.”
Even in this light he could see the flush of skin, “Oh you mean the girl with you, the flat ear...I don’t mean...after all, I’m a...was...”
A laugh actually found its way out. “No, not her. Creators be praised.” Although, that girl was interesting. Unexpectedly fiery, just as mustard greens might be if he were unaware they were in the dish.
“So if not her, then who?” her uncertainty was palpable as she hoped to use the information to persuade him.
The facade he wore and clung to, cracked as he said her name, “Lyna Mahariel, foundling and hunter of the Sabrae Clan.”
“And you can’t find her, because the clans are hiding.” He couldn’t meet her gaze, it would be lying to agree. Hoping that she would just let it go, yet knowing that he was in FenHarel's piercing stare, she would not. “What’s she like?”
To his shame, he fled the water, leaving the answer hanging in the air -
“Din.” [Dead]
Name: Arawn. Introduces himself as Doren Ailell
Age 85 (early middle age for an elf)
Male
Elf
Mage (Arcane Warrior / Spirit Healer)
Specializes in healing, works on his archery
Height 5'6" and slim
General Appearance:
Arawn's genetic roots are from a Rivianai father - thus the seemingly dark tanned skin, long dark braided hair and eyes.
His skin is relatively unmarked by signs of age and battle as his abilities first heal himself before others. His body appears to be much younger than his actual years and he wonders if the Quickening has been 'healed' by his abilities.
Personality:
Arawn is gruff and reserved in most cases. He grieves the death of his wife and the separation from his daughter. He can smile and laugh, but if it's not sarcastic at himself, then real ones are rare.
He is a kind man, one of few words, but many thoughts.
Background:
Arawn was used by the Keeper of his Clan to provide genetic diversity - a purpose he soon grew to hate as his children, except for the last, were withheld from him. He was loaned out to procreate, thus earning his clan favors. As a healer, he was able to help ripen the recipient's body and assist with the impregnation. This worked until he became Tainted and was forced to become a Warden to 'save him' and leave 'home'. Angered at the lie, he knows he is not saved and should have died at the Joining, the only thing holding him back from death is the spirit inside him, as he was unfit for the Joining.
Arawn's purpose in life - increasing elvhen numbers and being the First of his Clan - has been lost and he doesn't know what to do next. Feeling rejected by his clan, he calls himself Doren Ailell, which means 'Exiled One'.
Since he's been traveling, Arawn has been studying these elvhen ruins, that they've been cleaning out, and learning about the pre-history of the elves. Perhaps this is his new purpose?
His back is/was once covered in nature tattoos, [If past tense, then he has been tortured by Templars, skinning the ink off of him - much, much pain!] Templars and cities frighten him, making him more defensive and difficult.
Writing Sample:
Excerpt from Arwan's story where he was the Warden:
Arawn had had half a mind to slit this Duncan’s throat, but he had needed to know what the cure was for this illness, and not just for himself. Yes, it was something real, he could feel his healing turn inwards, making him want to chew off a limb just to be rid of the poison, should it be isolated in an arm or a leg. No, he hadn’t asked the Keeper stupid questions about the reality of the malignant presence, at least, did not argue about that. But Duncan, he hadn’t said anything, and the whole trip to Ostagar had been agonizing for Arawn as his talent had turned against the invader of his magic and body. However, the Warden’s cure hadn’t been one at all. The additional poison slammed into his body, the external form and vessel for his soul and psyche, causing damage to the already strained links that connected flesh, mind, heart, soul, and Fade.
It had taken nearly all of his body’s resources to contain and control the poison, to keep him alive after having taken that massive cup.
There was nothing left to save in Daveth and the pompous ass, turned cowardly shemlen certainly saved his wife and child, by bleeding all over the the stone. Waste, except to feed the ravens and the wolves. Talent and pragmatism had been devoured by the cup, and cowardice exalted, given a simple and clean death. Shemlen - he would never understand the creatures.
Some cures were worse than the poison. Right? With his veins still burning with it, Arawn did not believe that it was the case this time. He could only hope he learned some way to unlock the chains of that Tainted blood from himself, and use that information later. After hearing that the Wild’s Flower was used to keep the hounds from dying of the darkspawn blood it swallowed, he’d gathered all they saw, even digging up some of the bulbs from immature plants. Perhaps a cure would be found there.
To top it off, the witch’s daughter was foisted off on them and the bloody Warden was crying when he thought he was not being watched, positively sniveling. Mythal must have sent the hound, who seemed to remember him - and at least the witch and the young shemlen didn’t bicker while saving the thing from a squad of darkspawn. But when they reached Lothering and his head was yet still pounding from the cup, the poisoned arrows, and a good sized egg on the back of his head, something in him snapped in the face of the bandits and the subsequent argument over where to go. He couldn’t get rid of them, any of them, not even when blondie started chatting up a red-headed priestess and invited her to tag along, then the girl opened up a cage letting out the ugliest being on two legs, outside of an ogre, of course, and invited it - him - along. The man had eyes like a Qunari and he wonder if they mated with humans.
The worst part was they looked at him like he knew what he was doing, like he knew something they didn’t, like he had a great plan that was going to save them all - everyone that is except for the Sten creature and Morrigan. The only two-legged ones he didn’t feel bad about saving was the dwarf and his son. The man was cheerful without being grating and the simpleton of a boy... A child, that child, needed a parent, at least one, and there was no mother in sight. And that child on the bridge, the wolves ate his mother... They weren’t his responsibility. He should have known that some of them would become so.
Of the two ideas presented, Flemeth had backed Alistair’s plan, making it suspect because the hairs on the back of Arawn's neck stood on end when he looked her in the eye. And as much as he liked the sound of tearing down the walls of Denerim to get to Loghain, he had to go back to the forest. Let Alistair think it was all for the treaty and if they happened to find Dalish clans that weren’t leaving the area, great. If not - sending a prayer to Andruil and rubbing a finger down the vallaslin on his nose - Arawn had a body to find and a tree to plant.
...
Some dialog from his story - after Werewolves are taken care of:
This late the pool was generally empty, but the day and Fen’Harel had another trick to play on him. The hound either decided or neglected to warn him, or in the mabari’s defense, perhaps he did, but Arawn’s head was under the waterfall. Wiping water from his eyes, Lanaya was already half way across the pool swimming towards him.
Patience was already at a premium, and he had little to spare for the young Keeper.
“Keeper, it is late,” using her new title to increase the social distance. Unfortunately, it might also remind her of the duties and responsibilities he was fairly certainly she’d come to talk about, especially in light of the delicate flowers in her hair that was all braided up. Several curses leapt to mind, unfortunately, the first one was probably what she was looking for. Hystlen [Fuck].
“Or maybe it’s early,” her smile was shy as she bobbed in the pool, tops of her small breasts uplifted and buoyed by the water.
It was best just to have it done, to keep his own temper, from surfacing, one that stemmed from worry and sorrow. “Regardless of the hour, what may I do for you, Keeper?”
“Well, um...” Taking a deep breath, “The curse killed so many and the clan is small and I thought...”
“You thought that I could assist you with this problem.” All he had wanted was some sleep, a bit of peace, feeling small and spiteful. It was worse because he actually liked her and she would be a good Keeper. She, unlike her mentor, actually cared about the clan, even to the point of carrying some of their burdens, so to speak. “I have a Bonded.”
Even in this light he could see the flush of skin, “Oh you mean the girl with you, the flat ear...I don’t mean...after all, I’m a...was...”
A laugh actually found its way out. “No, not her. Creators be praised.” Although, that girl was interesting. Unexpectedly fiery, just as mustard greens might be if he were unaware they were in the dish.
“So if not her, then who?” her uncertainty was palpable as she hoped to use the information to persuade him.
The facade he wore and clung to, cracked as he said her name, “Lyna Mahariel, foundling and hunter of the Sabrae Clan.”
“And you can’t find her, because the clans are hiding.” He couldn’t meet her gaze, it would be lying to agree. Hoping that she would just let it go, yet knowing that he was in FenHarel's piercing stare, she would not. “What’s she like?”
To his shame, he fled the water, leaving the answer hanging in the air -
“Din.” [Dead]
