#c: rion severan

[gwynbleiddyn]

rion, one arm lighter, slowly succumbing to the Calling, sipping a margarita on some tropical smuggler's paradise in rivain after getting married and absolving himself of the world's problems: im retired

da: veilguard: think again old man

[gwynbleiddyn]

i am so excited to gnaw at datv lore and context like a rabid dog discovering bone marrow for the first time but specifically because i am very interested in kerros' self-perception as a dalish elf

rion was (is... was.... somewhere in between) dalish if you look at it objectively, but he was also a ephemeral city dweller and wanderer, and a templar, and a warden, and everything and nothing much at all packed into a broken little body of an elf lacking identity outside of his titles

kerros grew up in that shadow, regardless of how much love and care it held - it still dampened his worldview prematurely, to a point where being dalish is not a facet of his character yet. so how will he react to the elven gods? he has memorized the shape of elgar'nan's branding on his father's face. it is a static thing, unchanging, even as time carves lines into skin. is he marked this way forever? beholden to a set of ideals that will now be turned on their head? kerros has no markings yet, in the tradition of clan severan who only claim their vallaslin after a significant event, and i wonder if he ever will after knowing what their intended use was and whatever else emerges from the elven pantheon's presence in veilguard. but like vallaslin is not what makes a dalish elf, right? what else is there? the language? the nomadic nature (or semi-nomadic, in the case of clan severan) forced upon them by orlais? is it the endless pursuit of a lost time, a lost culture, a lost power?

in his mind, kerros doesn't have those connections that inform his identity outside of 'son of the warden-inquisitor who also has pointy ears' and im just very excited to see how fucking damning it's going to be sitting in the cradle of the death of arlathan (tevinter) surrounded by reminders that his storied gods are real all while being pushed and pulled in the direction of the promised land where the dalish regain their history, when his heaven is already here and it looks like a floating city of ships in the glittering rialto bay

[gwynbleiddyn]

i think rion's retirement is going poorly

[gwynbleiddyn]

Kerros Severan-Laidir sounds suitably impressive and completely jarring

[gwynbleiddyn]

i too, like bioware, enjoy beating the dead horse of dragon age by insisting my protag suffer through every single game instead of simply making a new one

rion was on the brain lately so i chanced a doodle and i don’t mega hate it so it’s allowed to be perceived 😔 i miss this messed up little guy

[gwynbleiddyn]

rion got a little christmas update because i finally got frosty to work and now he can be his most authentic grizzled self

[gwynbleiddyn]

will i ever play dai without taking 500 screenshots of rion??? no

[gwynbleiddyn]

i threw my problematic favourite to @elvenbeard once again and i am so in love with this ;-; thank you so much <3

rion’s life has been tumultuous at best and even now he finds himself facing uncertainty in each and every day, whether that’s regarding the inquisition’s future or his own - both of which hang in a precarious balance between time and inevitability - but he has never been in two minds about his own identity, and i really love that about him. he’s fearless in self-expression, and above all: unapologetic. we stan a bi king in this household thank u 

[gwynbleiddyn]

i’m vibing with this armour, the detail is [chef kiss] and it’s appropriately fancy for mr rion severan and all his political endeavours

[gwynbleiddyn]

guess who got his mod folder sorted >:D 

starting a fresh new playthrough with Rion for my yearly scheduled DA hyperfixation

[gwynbleiddyn]

this is just titled diplomacysucks.png and honestly that’s just a very Rion mood, at all times, always

[gwynbleiddyn]

this strange man, neither truly elf nor human, neither a mage nor a warrior, and neither a nobleman nor a commoner, sits now at the head of a strange and unforeseen alliance of the southern continent - Wardens and Templars march in solidarity under the banner of the Inquisition. with each passing hour the Inquisitor’s reach grows, claws sinking into the deepest, furthest reaches of Thedas with relentless tenacity, boundless ambition matched every step by his cutthroat cunning. 

he knows his power, and his worth. he makes no secret of either. his rise has inspired fanatical belief in the ranks of those two factions he is so intrinsically tied to - his origins with the Templars as a knight of entropy was what led him to the Grey Wardens to begin with, and it seems only fitting that it is the mark of his faith and the mark of the Blight that are now fighting for a hold on the Inquisitor himself. 

regardless, he has climbed, and climbed, and climbed further still to reach the highest point of his mighty tower, built upon the backs of those who failed before him, and now he sees clearly the threat of Tevinter and the invasion of the Qun across the sea -- only, he can no longer see the ground beneath his feet.

so from his seat in the tower, watchful eye upon the world he tried to win, in his heart of hearts, he knows: there is nothing left but the fall.

i commissioned the incredibly talented @sunshinemage to do this piece for me as something i’ve been sitting on for a while now that i’ve laid the foundations of rion’s story to the end, i knew it was something i could only trust delph to do ;^; and you did such a wonderful job, i couldn’t be happier <3 thank you so much my friend

[gwynbleiddyn]

“in your heart shall burn an unquenchable flame; all-consuming, and never satisfied”

as this chant of light unfolds, each thread in its expansive tapestry becomes clear. history repeats itself in order to make such a violently beautiful pattern, and this age is no different. 

it is true, then, that by way of an unfortunate consequence of boundless ambition matched only by ego; nothing will ever quite be good enough for the relentless inquisitor severan.

[gwynbleiddyn]

10, 11, and 12 for ri boi

mr rion severan sir it’s time to answer for your crimes

10. Their interactions with an enemy/rival

Rion’s pretty abrasive with those he doesn’t like. Not snappy, but not really afraid to show his teeth, so to speak. He likes people to know that he’s powerful, he doesn’t like people focusing on anything else because there’s a lot of weaknesses that he is acutely aware of hidden behind that initial facade. So, he’ll do a lot to ensure that facade remains standing, particularly with people he doesn’t like.

Rion watches Hawke pace the battlements, the sound of his armour putting dents into Rion's vision - sharp scratches of white sound, interrupting the shape of Hawke's words.

"Hawke, stop walking," Rion holds out a hand from where his arms have been folded tight across his chest. He waits until the other man looks at him in acknowledgement, the pacing coming to an abrupt end. "You knew about Corypheus, and you made no mention of it to anyone."

"That's not true--" Hawke takes a step towards Rion, indignance written across his face as his words fall flat against Rion's growl of warning.

"Then why was this hidden from us for years?"

"Corypheus was dead, Larius was on his way to tell the Wardens. My part in it was done!" Hawke argues, and Rion watches how his voice pitches dangerously into bloody purple hues, a colour Rion hasn't noticed before. He licks his dry lips, feeling sick to the stomach from the way his Blight-sickness has hit today, and his patience is running thinner than a razor. He could argue this all day long, how Hawke's reluctance had cost the Wardens nearly everything - but what good is fire against fire? Breathing in deep, Rion gives Hawke a long, cold stare.

It turns to ice at the mention of Larius.

"A Warden on his calling does not return," Rion's eyes narrow, stare hardening. "There's nothing left of the Warden, nothing worth knowing. They walk into those festering halls to die, nothing more. Did it not occur to you that a creature so twisted by the Blight should not be allowed to walk free?"

Hawke's expression twists, dark eyes fraught with confusion. "Larius, or Corypheus?"

Resisting the urge to smile, Rion shrugs. "Both."

11. Their interactions with a stranger 

It really depends on the day you catch him. The older he gets, the more volatile his anchor grows, the worse his Blight-sickness seems to get.-- you tend to have a bigger chance of catching him on a rough day. He can be pretty sharp and snappy on these days, more than any other. Strangers would probably get the brunt of that, and come away the worse for wear. 

On a good day, though, Rion does have this innate paternal quality to him that stands out to a stranger. He’s invested in people and their wellbeing, and his interactions reflect that. He creates a sense of being open without really revealing much about himself in the process. He’s always looking for allies, and most of the time, he’ll try and come across as someone worth knowing.

The boy is freezing, Rion notices right away. His jaw is clenched against the cold, his arms wrapped tight around himself with a white-knuckle grip, and he refuses to look anybody in the eye. His clothes are Tevene in origin, Rion guesses by the odd lines and layers the boy is draped in, although they're torn and worn thin, colour fading.

Rion can see Amrun and Ziyan bickering on the deck of the Boeric, gesturing towards the hunched figure every so often but neglecting entirely to include him in the conversation. A little rude, Rion thinks, but it is not his problem. He slips past a merchant's aravel and pulls a woven blanket from a pile of goods. He sees the first flicker of a complaint arising from the merchant, but one look their way and they can't seem to apologise quick enough.

"I will pay you later, friend. Does the Hahren no good to have a thief for a son, hm?" He quips idly as he passes, and the reply is lost on him when his focus returns to the boy, perched on a crate on the docks, staring at the ground like he wants it to swallow him whole. Rion approaches confidently, slowing as he draws near.

"You look cold." Rion offers his thoughts to the boy with an air of nonchalance, unfolding the blanket in his hands. The boy looks up at him sharply, eyes blown wide. There's a moment where he looks over his shoulder to Amrun on the deck, and then back to Rion, and recognition dawns. Rion gives a small, knowing smile, and throws the blanket around his shoulders. His thin frame is buried under the woven fabric, and his shaking slowly subsides.

"Thank you." The boy speaks softly, much softer than Rion was expecting. He studies him quickly, trying to put some pieces together in the short moment he'd swept the blanket upon his shoulders. He's young, very young -- can't be older than eighteen, surely? Lost, that much is certain. A little bruised and banged up, but the marks are fading. A runaway, but to Rivain from Tevinter? That's a long way. Perhaps Tevinter decided that for him, forced him out. A place so deliberate about its society is bound to have outcasts, even this young. All these possibilities filter through Rion's mind in an instant but he pushes the thoughts aside, settling on a simple question.

"Do you have a name?"

There's a moment of deliberation, before the boy pulls the blanket tighter around him and looks up with a sigh. "Lysander."

12. Them in their favorite outfit

We know he’s vain. He cares about his image. His favourite outfit is definitely going to be something that he feels powerful in -- probably his Warden-Commander regalia. It’s armour. It’s protective, it’s safe. But it’s also a symbol, and he knows it. 

It's easy to stand before Adamant in his armour - Commander of the Grey, denoted by the griffon wings, the elegant plate, the stark blue tabard lying over burnished silver, a hint of blue sky amidst an endless storm.

Sure, it's heavy. It carries weight, weight that isn't tangible in its metal plates and leather straps. Weight made up of memories, good and bad and everything in between. If Rion closes his eyes, he can feel the first time he put it on in its most basic form, the unadorned half-plate of a recruit fresh out of the Joining, stumbling through Ostagar with his fingertips on fire. He almost misses that time of ignorance, the joy of not knowing what lay ahead.

He remembers adding the gauntlets early on, not suited for magic but beautifully weighted for a sword. A moment where he decided his future would not be ruled by magic, however innate.

The greaves to go over his boots came from Alistair, months into their campaign. For a man who could, on occasion, be rather obtuse in his understandings, Alistair was strangely intuitive. Rion remembers the awkward, hesitant conversations they shared over their training regime under the Templars, silently admitting their fears for the organisation beneath their outspoken love for the purpose they upheld. Rion had spoken of the armour, how he'd enjoyed the weight and sturdiness of steel over leather, how it forced him to use his blade properly. Alistair went out of his way to find some greaves in Denerim. Rion hasn't forgotten that. He won't.

He's never liked helmets. Too restrictive. But Leliana had found one in an abandoned chest in Redcliffe Castle - Rion didn't ask questions, she had a penchant for finding and taking what she liked - and gave it to him, asked him to wear it. Rion remembers the way he'd laughed and refused repeatedly until she all but begged, "Just once, Rion, I promise.", and so he did, thinking he'd finally hear the end of it. He remembers how quiet the camp had gotten, how devoid of colour as silence fell -- and the way she'd looked at him, like he was some kind of hero.

Piece by piece he'd built his armour - him and his friends, companions, brothers in arms - and that gave it something else that any other piece of armour wouldn't have. Rion doesn't know how to explain it, but he can feel it every time he puts it on.

Right now, in this armour, watching fire rain down upon the Warden fortress of Adamant, he isn't the Inquisitor, and that thought is incredibly freeing.

character description meme

[gwynbleiddyn]

local bastard man thinks he’s charming, is shocked and offended to find that nobody cares

[gwynbleiddyn]

1 and 4 for Rion, and 10 and 16 for Cade?

RION

1. Them as a child

Wild, stubborn, bright-eyed, always the first to show up with skinned knees and elbows and dirt on his face, fists and fingers red-raw from climbing and scrapping his way through the terrible dangers of childhood. It was hard to keep his attention, he didn’t study well. Excelled at physical tasks where his hands were occupied as much as his mind, he spent a lot of time aboard his father’s ship for that reason. Put a lot of effort into creating, he’d make sand sculptures and mud pies and gather dead leaves from the olive groves only to come back wearing a crown. Mostly, he loved to draw and scribble on whatever he could find, if Amrun wasn’t careful he’d end up with shipping manifests covered in crayon doodles. Just a very bright, characterful boy who was easy to love. 

4. Their laugh

Kind of like a crackling fire. Very obviously worn, sometimes raspy; his voice is being shaped by things out of his control - the Blight, the anchor, strange magic twisting and pulling him into new shapes all the time. But it’s still warm, a pleasant sound, brings a warmth and light to the room no matter how quiet.

CADE

10. Their interactions with an enemy/rival

Brutal, is certainly one word for it. Cade’s not a diplomat - if he was, he wouldn’t be doing the job he is. People who cross him usually get a biotic wrecking ball to the face for their audacity, followed by a couple of bullets in the places that hurt the most. Knees, elbows - enough to cripple, give Cade time to have the last word, and then he’ll finish the job. 

That’s not to say he’s unreasonable, mind you, just... blunt. Once a decision is made, he doesn’t tend to go back on his word. Things are done decisively. If he’s got you marked as an enemy or a rival, he’s going to treat you like one. 

16. Them sleepy

Cade looks peaceful when he’s tired. He’s usually so full of energy, so disciplined and on the go getting things done, done, done -- it’s not a gradual thing either, it’s full steam for a day and then he just shuts down. Goes quiet. Lets his thoughts kind of hang there so his mind and body can just rest, ready for the next day. 

There’s telltale signs too - he fiddles with his ear, just absently pulling at earlobes or pressing the cartilage around. He becomes kind of languid, taking up space without meaning to with legs sprawled out and head resting in an open palm, elbow propped up on the arm of a sofa or a table. He still talks, but it’s noticeably less amped and he processes things slower. It’s just like he’s been running at 1.25x speed and someone reset him back to 1 for eight hours so he can just rest.