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Character Age: 27
Race: Elf
Character Pronouns: She/Her
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Timezone: Eastern
Application: http://ttam.jcink.net/index.php?showtopic=510&st=0&#entry1499
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Specialization: Shadow
Occupation: Thief
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Freya Eroan

Rogue

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Dec 20 2017, 01:32 AM
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<center><i>23 Kingsway, 9:40</i></center><p>
Though it is treacherous to travel at night, Freya largely prefers it in lieu of the revealing daylight. Her schedule has transitioned over the years, adapting to cover of darkness until her body knew to grow weary before the first signs of dawn crept over the horizon. It was very early morning in the wilds as she made her way from Orlais to Ferelden, having opted to take the longer route around the Dales just to continue to avoid the place. Revisiting her homeland was always a lingering task in her subconscious, there to poke her on occasion and remind her that she was terrible at confrontation. Once again she'd pushed it back down to only a quiet murmur, a suggestion she chose not to abide as she treks onward towards her destination.
<p>

It is with some surprise that she spots a campsite nearly hidden in the trees, her good ear pulling back as the smell of cooked food from hours before makes her stomach grumble loudly. The last time she ate something was a mystery to her, perhaps a day or so ago, and the realization makes a wave of dizziness wash over her. Her pack was barren of anything that could satisfy, even a little bit, so it is with great care that she dips low and creeps forward as silently as she possibly can. The fact that it was not yet dawn helped, given that she was small and covered head to toe in black clothing, though she did not know anything of the person she was approaching. <p>

Upon reaching a point where she could see clearly through the gloom, there was an extinguished campfire whose embers have been cold for some time, a small tent pitched, and a pair of feet sticking out from the base on top of a bedroll. She breathes as subtly as she can, listening for the sounds of stirring, or anything at all that would deter her from this venture. If the individual was anywhere near being apart of the waking world, they did not show it. Further inspection brings a bit of sway into her decision--spotting the empty bottles of alcohol that are off to the side with a small assortment of things. What looks to be a backpack is leaned up against a tree right next to the tent, likely so that if anything jarred it the sound would bring its owner around to stop whatever was rifling through it. Still, if this person had been drinking, they might sleep a little harder than normal, and this would enable her to grab what she could and get out of there before they even had a chance to respond. <p>

Chewing her lip in concentration, the rogue slips carefully through the brush, minding her footsteps and all of the natural traps the forest laid for thieves. Small brambles and branches are avoided, and in a few moments she is quietly lifting the top off the bag and beginning to slowly root through it. Her ears twitch and move, listening acutely to the tent beside her and the soft snoring that comes from within, stopping every few seconds to look about her and make sure that she is alone before continuing. <p>

The elf has only secured a few apples, some dried meat, and a coin purse before she hears something fast approaching. It crashes through the undergrowth, messily sounding its coming and causing her to scramble to grab what she could. However, she was not expecting it, and before she can make a break for it a loud bark booms through the area--signalling that she'd been caught. Wincing visibly, she turns with her hand on the hilt of one of her daggers, having skittered back half into the brush before the dog pinned her with its eyes. Wait, did she say dog? She meant monstrosity. Her heart leaps into her throat at the size of the mabari that growls, knowing that, even from a distance, it would be taller than her if it were any closer. A cold sweat breaks out along her neck, looking to back away slowly so that it would not attempt to chase her, though by now she can already hear the person moving around and waking up.<p>

<i style=color:#8a6992>Fuck.</i><p>

<strong style=color:#8a6992>Rogue Speak</strong> <i style=color:#8a6992>Think Colour</i> <br>

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Dec 14 2017, 11:45 PM
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<center><i>TBD, 9:41</i></center><p>
Freya sighs in relief when the treeline breaks into a beaten path. She can already begin to smell the moisture of a marsh, and feels the ground give beneath her careful steps. The morning light leaks through the gaps in the ever-thinning wood, dappling her skin with gold and warmth. The breaths she takes are laced with the scent of the wet soil and the stink of stagnant water, soon finding herself standing on what was left of a road before the water levels rose. The foliage in the area was mostly bare, or hardy browning plants and hanging moss. All is still, except for the hum of insects and the occasional disturbance of the water. <p>

Wait, a marsh? Her lips purse in contemplation, as this was not where she had planned to end up. She must have gotten turned around somewhere in the forest. The forest that had been entirely unfamiliar to her. The thought struck a nerve with expert precision, a quick spike of anger swelling and receding within her. The outward reaction was a grind of her teeth, though she was not sure what she had been expecting. Some magical recollection, in vivid detail, of the exact location of her clan and birthplace? No, she was clearly not so fortunate in life. Figures, that once she finally works up the nerve to attempt to go explore the Dales for the exploitation of her roots, she gets lost and finds nothing. Slender fingers rub her temple methodically, but her attempt at calm is broken. Picking up a rock, she throws it as hard as she can in sheer frustration, and it plunges into the water unceremoniously.
<p>

This is certainly what she gets for holding onto some childish fantasy that she would recognize her surroundings via mystical deja vu. <p>

Reaching into the pack at her side, she riffles through the assortment of random items (some money, a couple pieces of jewelry not hers, bits of food, some tools, etc.) and digs out a wrapped piece of bread. Well, she might as well follow the road if she was going have some excuse for being here. <p>

She is stewing as she walks and eats, upset enough to nearly miss the statue that juts up from a tangle of undergrowth. Her entire body jolts when she sees the shape of an animal face, whipping around and looking up at the stiff, broken posture of a stone halla. Its antlers are ensnared by vines and twigs, its body covered in moss and cracked. Tentatively, she reaches out to brush some of the moss from its face, feeling her anger start to dissipate as she looks up. It wasn't what she wanted, but it was something at least. Breathing a slow sigh, she looks around the statue to the small, dilapidated ruin that it was guarding. It was worth investigating at this point, she supposed. <p>

What she does not expect to find inside is another person, let alone someone who was not from here. Freya jolts when she rounds a corner into an open room, staring straight into the face of an elf a little taller than she was. Her hands fly to her daggers, feet skittering back into the hallway she came from as she prepares to flee. It was the strangeness of him that gave her pause, eyes scanning the traditional black and gold of his Tevinter garb. She herself was dressed with no allegiance, but was no more Dalish than he. Carefully, she lowers her hands and straightens her stance, though the only closer she comes is to re-enter the room and stay far across from him.<p>

<strong style=color:#8a6992>"An odd place to run into someone."</strong> She begins, glad for the light that slants across his face so that she could examine his features. Taking the time to do so, she's rendered speechless as that feeling she had been searching for punches her in the chest. The urge to go closer is so strong she nearly shakes from the effort it takes to keep her body back. What... who is this man? He couldn't be any older than she was, and she couldn't recall having been acquainted with anyone that was missing an arm. <p>

<strong style=color:#8a6992>"Do I know you?</strong> It's an abrupt question, but she can think of nothing else to say. <p>



<i style=color:#8a6992>Think Colour</i> <br>

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Dec 14 2017, 09:21 PM
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<center><i>9 Firstfall, 9:27</i></center><p>
The cold, salty air bites her skin as she slides down from the window and into the street. It is dark out, the cloudy sky casting long shadows before the moon. She waits for a moment with breath puffing in small, measured wisps of smoke, to listen for movement. Her temporary escape has gone unnoticed, at least for now, and with that she slips into the welcoming night. The streets are sparsely populated between the hour and the temperature, and those left huddle in groups beneath the dim light of tall lanterns. Avoiding the glow from the flames as much as she could, there is no way to stop the reflective, feral glint of her eyes in the darkness. A couple she passes gasp in surprise, but thankfully do not decide to pursue. She does not want to return any sooner than she needed to, even if her spent body wailed in want of a long sleep. <p>

The young child's muscles are sore, skin haunted by the ghosts of unwanted hands touching and squeezing and scratching. Invisible insects skitter up her spine and squirm in her stomach, a shiver making her tremble as the subsequent disgust threatens to make her vomit. She needed a distraction, one that would free her of the pain that lingers in throbs. A slip of warmth spreads down her cheek, and with a hand she reaches up to smear the blood away from the corner of her mouth. Deciding which was worse, him or his dogs, was not an easy call to make--even with the sharp ache from the punctures on her face prodding a headache into being. The cold was helping to numb everything but the flow of her thoughts. If anything, without the discomfort the images and memories became easier to focus on. <p>

Eventually she stops beside an unknown building, arms wrapped tightly around herself and hands tucked up under her armpits. She's shivering, teeth clacking together as she is not dressed for the weather, but anything is better than being there to stew in the aftermath. <p>

Faceless strangers have faded indoors now, escaping the cold that claws at their heels. However, up ahead there is a man walking past her all by himself, and this catches her attention. Glancing around, making sure the streets were clear of anyone that would see, she begins to slink toward him. His features were hidden in the gloom, not that they mattered to her, though she might have reconsidered it had she known that he was like her. A small hand deftly reaches up to see what he might have in his pockets--taking no time to calculate that maybe her desperation to be distracted might have forced her to act impulsively. Perhaps he had a few coins that she could use to buy something warm to drink.
<p>

<strong style=color:#8a6992>Rogue Speak</strong> <i style=color:#8a6992>Think Colour</i> <br>

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Dec 14 2017, 02:55 AM
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<h1>Freya Eroan</h1>
<h2>27 years old . thief . rogue . Mariette Valsan</h2>
<h3>Junos . 24 . Eastern . PM or discord</h3>
<div class="maincontent scroll">

<h3>Info</h3>

<ol>Other Characters</ol>
N/A

<ol>Birthdate</ol>
23 Haring 9:14

<p>

<ol>Race & Nationality</ol>
Elf - Orlesian (The Dales)

<p>

<ol>Alignment</ol>
True Neutral

<p>

<ol>Family Members</ol>
Vana Eroan – Mother (Deceased)<br>
Cyrith Eroan – Father (Deceased)<br>
Rak'han Eroan – Brother (Status Unknown)

<p>

<ol>Weapons</ol>
Daggers – Advanced<br>
Bow and Arrow – Novice (Currently does not own)<br>
Short Sword – Intermediate (Currently does not own)


<p>

<ol>Abilities</ol>
Subterfuge – Experts in these talents are masters of misdirection. Whether leaping to safety, disappearing into the shadows, or tricking enemies into slashing at empty air, they are never where anyone expects them to be.<p>

Specialist – Specialist rely on precision, power, and speed to overwhelm their opponents.


<p>

<ol>Specialization</ol>
Shadow – Shadows utilize an arsenal of misdirection and stealth to its fullest extent. They unleash devastating flanking strikes before vanishing from sight, felling their foes long before the enemy can even land a blow.

<h3>Freestyle</h3>

Physical Appearance – Freya is, much to her benefit, unassuming. There is nothing particularly spectacular about the delicate elf, and by the standards of her race she meets 'average' in every mark. The ochre tone of her skin is broken only by pale scars, both old and new, with few (fortunately) being very deep. Eyes of honey gold are observant and wary of her surroundings—often downcast to avoid detection or suspicion. Her clothes are plain, dark in color, and never of a quality fine enough to draw attention. Black hair is left down in messy waves and curls, sometimes braided in haphazard reminiscence of where her origin lies. Sparse freckles dot her cheeks and across her nose, which is also where a golden ring sits in her left nostril. Her right ear looks as though its been in the teeth of a beast, missing a portion of the tip and scarred over (though it is often hidden behind her hair, as it is much shorter than the other).<p>

Demeanor – On the surface she is just as demur as what is expected—quiet and subservient as much as she can be. Beneath brews a storm of untamed emotion, raw and powerful in its current and its influence. She is bound and chained to her whims, pulled back and forth between temperance and impulse. At the same time, her wariness has sharpened into a threatening blade. Friends are few, and threats are many. Risks are taken in cautious measures, her mind always one step ahead of itself and planning too far in advance for a reliable prediction. Despite her soft appearance, she is always tensed and ready to act at a moment's notice—fingers always ghosting over the handle of a hidden blade. <p>

History – Freya was raised briefly alongside her younger brother in the sprawling woods east of Orlais. The Dales are a vague memory in the back of her mind, its clarity continuously mottled as the years go on. It was once part of her identity, but with the intervention of Tevinter slavers, she could no longer keep close to what she once thought she would become. Being older than her brother and able to work, she was put immediately into the hands of masters. The first few years were not so bad, she supposed. It was all menial, manual labor with beatings sprinkled here and there for insubordinate behavior. There were slaves that had it far worse than she did, surely. Still, even with that in mind, she frequently visited daydreams of daring escapes. She would go back to the woods and what was left of her clan (so she believed at the time), and life would go on.
<p>
It was not until she was transferred into a new set of hands, ones that made use of her in every way that they possibly could, that her mindset changed. Less and less she thought of escape as more of her nights were spent dragging herself back to her glorified closet of a room—used in ways her young mind had trouble grasping and keeping hold of. Her master amused himself with her in many different ways, nearly solely responsible for the scars that are plotted across her narrow form. For five years she toiled in his service, and every day that passed she spent receding further and further in a dark pit of anger. No, she didn't want to escape, not when he would simply take another in her place. <p>

She planned his end meticulously, even down to how she would frame it and slip away after the deed was done. Killing a man, even one that deserved it, never sat well on her shoulders. Deft hands were put to use in the outside world where discrimination was rampant. She took what she could not earn, becoming a quick, agile, and silent adversary to those who would infringe on her right to live in a world she was forced to be apart of. Years drug on, and she's never stopped living in the streets. Nomadic only when the wrong people become familiar with her face, she stays in one location for as long as she possibly can. Her prospects are never greedy, only enough to survive, and busies herself in between with odd jobs (typically some sort of courier). <p>

The elf struggles with direction, lost in a world of limited possibilities, and has no idea where to place herself in it. While her heart yearns for what she lost, she forces it to look to the empty, uncertain future.

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