#.v hof. [ i haven’t lost hope; i’m just realistic ]

[elvenderelict]

greeting: @blightcd

The autumn was growing bitter cold, the nights long and dark. Conversely, the wardens were picking up strays wherever they went. To contend with the turbid, inscrutable, Stygian black of . . . 5:30 pm, it was decided that they’d begin doubling for watches. Two sets of eyes per shift. Tabris’ arguments that one Night Elf and one Mabari counted for at least four sets of eyes fell on deaf ears. He did what he wanted for the first few nights of this, letting his assigned partner sleep while he and Biscuit spent their shift carving slices off a kielbasa. But he’d ultimately decided that the extra rest they were recouping wasn’t worth getting barked at by the rest of the party every morning, and so the evening found him crouching down outside Neros’ tent. “Hey. Surana.” He scratched the canvas, aiming to annoy rather than startle. One of the many things that partnering with a mage for five years had taught him was that spooking them was bad for one’s health. “Neros, mate, get up. Second watch.”

[elvenderelict]

greeting: @murderof

It wasn't the accent that clued him in. Not at first. It wasn't until the assassin was making a beeline for his throat that Tabris saw him for what he was; he could count the Crows he'd met during his time as a Friend on one hand and still have fingers to spare, but from the perspective of a rogue, the manner in which they moved was unforgettable. No one should have that much control over their body. It crossed the line of professionalism and ended at preternatural. Unnerving, was what it was.

He swore a blue streak through their brief altercation, but weeks of facing down Darkspawn had been excellent practice for controlling fear and he managed to down his opponent. When the rest of the Crow's shoddy trap was cleaned up, and he found the man unconscious but still breathing, he raised his axe to remedy that. A strike to the base of the skull would be fast and painless.

"You're really just . . . going to put him down like a chicken?"

Alistair received an incredulous look for that. He knew his fellow Warden was a bit of a soft touch, but confirming one's opponent was actually dead seemed like something the Chantry would make their Templars inured to.

The Crow stirred before he could articulate an argument. Killing a disabled but conscious opponent was something Tabris did struggle with; he pressed his fingers against his closed eyes and grumbled, "Maker, grant me patience."

[elvenderelict]

greeting: @fadedpath

"Aneth Ara!"

The voice floated somewhere above her head, but 'ara' was distinctly closer than 'aneth'. Then the owner dropped off a crumbling pillar of rubble, the overgrown remains of Ostagar's middle bailey, in a flounce of dust and ginger hair. His ankles stung from landing too hard without rolling — he hoped she wouldn't notice the slip up.

Duncan had instructed he and Daveth to meet their fellow recruits upon arrival, so naturally Tabris had made himself scarce — besides servants and merchants, his fellow thief was the only person whose presence was tolerable, and he wasn't in the mood for having his ass handed to him by Daveth's quick hands during rounds of Wicked Grace — but there was one recruit he had genuine interest in meeting.

He wouldn't have dropped in on her so suddenly if he'd realized what the markings on her face meant sooner. He searched them as he approached, wondering who they represented. Tabris thought the vallaslin would strike him with the same sense of déjà vu he experienced with spoken Elvhen, but they just looked like elaborate tattoos.

"Sorry, I'm sorry. Didn't mean to drop in like that. You're Suhani, right? I'm Tabris. Conscript."

[elvenderelict]

greeting: @dalishborne

He lingered around the ingress, wringing his hands, unwilling to step further into her space. Against the organic shapes of Elvhen craft and the heavy-bearded greenery of the camp, he seemed out of place; the murky wool scarf he wore was peppered with the thorns it had snagged when he'd been tracking Clan Aravun down. Meeting with Dalish was always nerve-wracking; he never knew what combination of hospitality, hostility, curiosity, or dismissal he could expect from the clans and he was rarely granted an audience with their Keepers easily. Somehow, this still felt like an intrusion. He knew well the steep learning curve of leadership, the struggle to retain the respect of those decades older. He hated to compound it with bad news. "Thank you for seeing me, Keeper. I saw your Aravels, and I thought — I didn't know if you knew about the ghouls. There's been a spike of activity in the region — wolves, mostly. Don't know why yet. But you'll be heading into the thick of it if you keep travelling West."

[elvenderelict]

l i n k s

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t a g s

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[elvenderelict]

v e r s e s

main verse || #.v hof. [ i haven’t lost hope; i’m just realistic ] ||  After the conclusion of the Fifth Blight, an exhausted Tabris leaves Denerim with Cyrion and Soris, telling only a few companions where he’s going. He spends the next ten years narrowly dodging summons to Weisshaupt and working with Avernus to find a cure for the taint when he’s not hiding on Soris’ alchemical farm. You can read about the player-dependent outcomes I assume when playing him here; full description with his reasoning is still under construction. This verse is very fluid, any decisions he’s made can be changed to better fit your muse.

secondary verse || #.v aof. [ cues from a script i wrote at sixteen ] || Duncan never visits the Alienage; Seysil is jailed, but the execution is postponed when word of Ostagar hits Denerim. Enter Howe. A year later, the Warden releases a very bitter elf from Howe’s dungeons with the rest of the prisoners there. He’s too weak to help them fight, but he describes the guard rotations and draws them serviceable floor plans on scrap paper. They meet him again outside the faux clinic during Unrest in the Alienage, where he’ll help them clean up the Tevene slavers. :: DA2 : Unable to bear his family’s pity anymore, Seysil visits a friend from his time with the Friends who relocated to Kirkwall. It’s shitty there. He needs funds if he wants to leave, so he starts cagefighting in Darktown. :: Inq : The Fang of Fen’harel takes on a new meaning. Seysil joins the Inquisition as an agent, but it’s not Leliana he answers to.

horror verse || #.v dsc. [ arrow to the head ] || To hunt a thing, you must become it. Or, the Golems of Amgarrak goes very wrong. What happens to a person with poisoned blood in the abscence of light or hope?

modern thedas || #.v mod. [ my ribs that show through t-shirts ] || After losing his scholarship for an engineering degree, Seysil Tabris spends his time moping around father’s yard, gutting cars when he decides to take a break from chainsmoking and daydrinking. The alienage would have gathered a committee to evict him for the weekly 3am drift racing if he didn’t look so profoundly sad all the time. 

skyrim || #.v tes. [ even crooks have to pay the rent ] || (Wood Elf/Orc; Thieves’ Guild) Born in the Waterfront District to a former Spectre, Seysil was introduced to the guild young. It was only a matter of time before he signed on. In his twenties, a childhood rivalry gets out of hand, and the ranking blackcap gives him an ultimatum; he can either leave the guild, or relocate to Riften. This was, in Seysil’s words, “Pretty lame,” but he takes the deal. He now works as a bouncer for the Ragged Flagon, trading shifts with Dirge, but the industrious thief might know that he's got his fingers in the illegal trade of Dwemer artifacts. 

forgotten realms || #.v dnd. [ when the heat dies down ] || (Rogue/Fighter) wip lmao

[elvenderelict]

A little dismissive for Tabris' tastes, but a scoff was a step in the right direction. He'd take it. It was nice to know there was somebody underneath all those thorns.

"Would you? That'd be great. Shouldn't be too low on dry wood, but if we are, shout before you head off into the woods. You can take Biscuit. Yeah?"

The question was directed at the dog, who was digging furiously at an anthill. The mabari boofed in assent, not even glancing up from his task.

If Neros was keen, he might notice that the offer made to him wasn't quite a suggestion — by 'you can', Tabris had definitely meant 'you will'. They hadn't established yet who was leading beyond Alistair vetoing himself, but Tabris tended to issue commands — warnings in the middle of battle, debates about which course of action was best, what stew to make with their limited ingredients (he’d argued for pigeon and spring onion more than once) — in the offhanded manner of someone who was used to people following.

Foe?? That was kind of funny actually, he could admit that. Just the tiniest hint of a laugh escaping him, more akin to a scoff than anything but it was all he was willing to give just yet. So quickly after waking up from restless sleep between the fade and darkspawn dreams to get that much was more than generous for most.

❝It's not horrific...❞

Shaking his head at the question. Tea was a new thing to him after all, some might've had it in the circle but never him. He was still coming around to the taste of it, but so long as it didn't smell horrible and taste like someone just shoved a leaf off the ground into some water he'd drink. Better than most things they got these days.

❝Do you need me to get the fire?❞

[elvenderelict]

A dim glow illuminated the tent. Tabris stiffened, waiting for a telekinetic blast that, fortunately, never came. “Which? Surana, or Ner-”

The mage’s silhouette vanished with the light. He answered Tabris’ question before he could finish asking it.

In Ostagar, Tabris had hovered around the elven servants, offering help when it wouldn’t get them in hot water — it’s not that he hated every human, but recent events had left him just a touch sick of their faces. He remembered being so relieved that Neros survived when they woke in Flemeth’s hut. As prickly as the mage was, his presence meant Tabris wasn’t alone with Morrigan and Alistair.

The prickliness was beginning to wear on him, though. He exchanged look with his dog, who was leaning heavily against his thigh. His brow was still quirked when he turned back to Neros and folded his arms over his chest.

“Alright. Foe. Do you like mint? I’m gonna get the kettle after the fire’s fed.”

The scratching at his tent has him wake with a near start. Not scared, never scared, darkspawn and wildlife would never get that from him, but ready. A hand reaching for his already dimly glowing staff before the call registers in his mind.

❝Don't call me that.❞

A grumbled half-awake call back as he flops back down on the little bedroll, hands covering his eyes against the now intrusive albeit dim light as it fades away. He only lingers there for a moment before snatching up his staff and pushing the tent open.

❝We're not mates, got it?❞