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Character Age: 20
Race: Elf
Character Pronouns: He/Him
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Specialization: Assassin
Occupation: Scout
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Joined: 21-November 17
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Last Seen: Yesterday at 12:34 pm
Local Time: Apr 23 2018, 10:00 PM
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Eirik Vadi

Rogue

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Apr 15 2018, 04:33 PM
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<h2>25 Cloudreach, 9:41</h2>

It was a dry morning, on the cusp of spring and winter—thankfully warm enough for Eirik not to have woken with freezing fingers, as he might have, if he had done the same in the unforgiving wilderness of the Hinterlands that had been his home. It had been the small hours of the morning since his last memory. He’d only a notion of how much time had passed when he heard the chirping of birds overhead.<p>

He had come here following Valasan, but had seen little of the elf since, so absorbed was he in taking in the new sights and sounds. Looking back on it, the two of them had come quite close to death, and in fact, the other two scouts (whom Eirik had hardly known) had met their end at the demon’s claws. The other Dalish elf had seemed quite put out by it. <strong style=color:#8a6992>“Why didn’t you tell this one he ought to adapt to survive?”</strong> He had asked over one of their skewered corpses. <strong style=color:#8a6992>“Or was he not privy to your wisdom?”</strong><p>

He supposed this had not endeared him any towards the mage, who had spent their time traveling back to Skyhold in a huff, moping over the humans’ deaths.<p>

No one knew what he was doing here, yet, for the Inquisitor herself had inducted him as a guest and nothing more. They had yet to wrangle him into any actual work. He had settled into a nice, soft bed, explored the area, then had been lured by the bustle and activity of the tavern. Perhaps due to the Inquisitor’s influence, the people here were much more obliging towards a Dalish elf than he was used to. Some of them had even seen him speaking to her. There was some merit in a human’s tendency to assume they were related, or at least connected, for he sometimes found himself treated with an unwarranted amount of respect, not the least of which was a free round of drink. Or several.<p>

He was quickly swept up in the crowd. For months he had lived a Dalish life, isolationist, dignified and enduring. Yet there was still some part of him that thought it was a shame he’d have to live hidden in the woods. He was so young—in his prime, in fact. Didn’t he deserve to be admired? That night he drank until he couldn’t taste the bitterness anymore, lips locked with a stranger, intimacy and inebriation mixing to create a raucous blood-rush that eventually (he vaguely remembered) had him pushed out the tavern door. From there, his memory greyed out. He had made his way down into the stables. (It was a wonder he had even found Mana in his state.) He had tried to clamber onto her back, though he couldn’t remember why: maybe he had thought to leave Skyhold, or maybe he had meant to ride her straight back into the tavern. See if they could have kept a hart out of the door.<p>

A good sport about it all, the swiftwind hart had patiently let him slide off her back to land prone on the ground, then stood beside him as he slept, dozing.<p>

As the sun rose, Mana was the first to rise, alerted by the sound of a door opening. She shook out her blue coat, beadlets of dew spraying from her antlers down to the round tuft of her tail. Raising her head to look at the early riser, she seemed to recognize Valasan, letting out a few friendly <i>chuff</i>s before she began to eat breakfast: a bundled bale of hay. On the ground, Eirik had begun to move. He rolled over, raising an arm to rub the side of his head, but otherwise remained flat on the pasture.
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Apr 8 2018, 11:26 PM
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<h2>01 Solace, 9:41</h2>
Eirik had been thrown into Skyhold prison like a common criminal. The sentence was light—a single twenty-four hour period—but he was indignant regardless. He had done nothing out of the ordinary as far as taverns were concerned. Rough-housing was expected. Anyone who visited ought to have known that. No one had been hurt besides a bruise or a scrape (Eirik had come out of it only with a sore, impacted side), the only casualties being a table, a thrown chair, and a slew of bottles.<p>

It was those monastic old Andrastians, he thought. And all those <i>dignitaries</i>, the Orlesians with their masks and the stinking, Ferelden dog-lords (a phrase he had picked up from their more foreign visitors and one he gladly used himself). The Herald’s Rest was Skyhold’s only tavern, after all. They couldn’t be making a scene in front of the Inquisition’s honored guests. <i>What’s it for then? Is it a chapel? Is it another church? Am I supposed to sit in a pew and praise the Maker?</i> But they had dragged him off regardless.<p>

He had been locked in with two other Inquisition members, no doubt charged with some misdemeanor—thankfully a quiet lot, who had averted their gaze after a single pointed stare. With no one else to complain to (at least no one who could do anything about it), Eirik had sat down to begin his day-long sentence. He noted that even a jail made in Andraste’s name wasn’t without its filth.<p>

Time passed. It couldn’t have been more than a few hours; enough, at least, for his buzz to subside. In the prison’s long hallway, he heard the sound of approaching footsteps. Even during his short stay here—and the brief time in Justinian—he had come to realize that this was routine, whether it be jail-cell visits, or a guard on his patrol. He paid little attention to it until he saw the figure come into view. She was slight and long-haired, elven, growing more familiar the closer she got.<p>

Eirik perked up and got to his feet. Vela had always seemed a reasonable sort. While she was often busy with important business, she had always spoken to him softly and treated him with concern, something the young elf admittedly craved. He had even expected her to be a contradiction. Surely none could escape being worshipped and eventually forming into a power-addled tyrant, or another arm of the humans’ Maker, but if this was to be Vela’s fate, it hadn’t happened yet. As soon as she had gotten close, Eirik called her name, hoping it would be enough to catch her attention: to most, she was simply the Inquisitor. He stuck an arm out through the bars.<p>

<strong style=color:#8a6992>“Vela, you made it,”</strong> he said, a breath in there, as if in relief. <strong style=color:#8a6992>“How…how did the sieging go?”</strong> Eirik glanced her up and down, finding her relatively whole and uninjured. Of course, he had heard Adamant had been a success ahead of time, had heard that both she and Valasan had survived it, but this was, to his chagrin, the first time he’d seen her since she had left. <strong style=color:#8a6992> “You look good.”</strong><p>

Eirik shifted, aware of how insincere it all sounded. In fact, he was genuinely glad to see her in one piece…but had surmised this as his only opportunity to get out of his twenty-four hour sentence and, of course, that was important. He figured he might as well cut to the chase. <strong style=color:#8a6992>“…Can I ask a favor?”</strong> he said, sheepish.


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Mar 8 2018, 11:31 PM
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<h2>03 August, 9:41</h2>

Ravens rose through the rafters in a cacophony of black feathers. They seemed to be so numerous that they filled one’s vision until they passed, some to take their perches on ceiling beams, tables or railings, and others out the open windows. Eirik watched. Frowning, he reached up to take a stray feather out of his hair. He had opened the door a little too quickly, and the flock had scattered the moment it hit the stone wall behind it with a resounding <i>bang.</i> Embarrassing, but luckily, a quick scan of the circular upper rafters showed that there were few witnesses — save for the spymaster herself.<p>

Eirik had a peculiar way of interacting with Leiliana. He wasn’t quite demure, but he referred to her with human honorifics, ‘miss’ or ‘lady’ or, as many did, simply ‘spymaster’, where other humans of her status were dismissed or met with hostility. He did not immediately relate to her whatever sprang up in his mind; something about her bearing made him consider his words, though at times it was quite obvious that he was making an effort in biting his tongue. The only other person he had known to shift his behavior like this had been his Keeper Yevvel. Indeed, Leiliana must have known all about the Vadi clan. He was under the impression that she knew everything: that some disappearances in distant outskirts of villages, or travelers passing through their territory, were not the work of beasts or highwaymen but of his clan’s often-violent interactions with humans. That their dealings with the Inquisition before their dissolve had been short and bloody. They had killed soldiers, scouts, mages and templars, and quite a few innocents, too, and Leiliana might have thrown Eirik in prison like a common bandit if she wanted to.<p>

Instead, he was working for her. He had been afraid of the consequences if he hadn’t agreed to it. At first he had felt strong-armed, but he had been treated well, though the work was hard and obviously dangerous.<p>

Usually correspondence via raven was enough, but this time Eirik was making a delivery. He approached Leiliana as she stood in front of one of her Andrastian statues, candles placed at its feet. The carved face of Andraste stared unchanging past Leiliana’s head. He doubted that she heard a single prayer. <strong style=color:#8a6992>“Spymaster,”</strong> he uttered.<p>

She must have heard him come in. Eirik pulled a ring from his pocket. On its face was carved a distinctive seal. <strong style=color:#8a6992>“I left them where they lay, but I have brought this as proof,”</strong> he said, offering it to her.<p>

Eirik’s strength laid in tracking. He had been sent on the trail of two traitors and defectors, and had dispatched the both of them with a pair of arrows in the night.

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Feb 17 2018, 12:41 AM
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<center><i>05 Harvestmere, 9:41</i></center><p>

A shade in Eirik’s shape appeared in the Fade as if summoned. To his sleeping mind, it would seem only a dream, pulled from his unconsciousness to a false awakening on the Fade-woven ground. It was dark. He felt he was underground. The sound of beating waves on the shore was louder and more omni-present than it was in his waking hours — he heard it in his troubled sleep, and so it had appeared here, too, an echo of an echo.<p>

He had only the vaguest notion of what he was doing. Like in all dreams he felt no surprise at his surroundings. This underground pit was simply where he was supposed to be. That didn’t mean he couldn’t try to find his way out — it made sense to him at the time that he not simply sit in darkness — and so he stood, holding a hand out in front of him. His shade had an effervescent glow to it. It was slightly translucent, especially at the extremities, the tips of his fingers showing completely through. This didn’t alarm him either. Eirik touched an earthy wall, squeezing dirt and pebble between his fingers, and began to claw at it. He felt certain he would find the surface this way. He dug and dug, the ground soft as sand, falling easily away as he sifted it through his immaterial hands, until he brushed something cold.<p>

Flesh. He knew it immediately. The face buried in the dirt shone white as bone, its eyes closed, its lips curled from its teeth in death. It was not the face of Jetta or Tommen, his two fellow scouts who had fallen with him into the trap, but of a long-dead clanmate. <i>This is a grave.</i> The sudden jolt of terror sundered the Fade around him; to Eirik’s dreaming mind it would seem as if he had simply appeared above ground, unaware of how the dream shaped itself around him.<p>

Now he was looking over a tumultuous sea.<p>

Eirik was standing close to the water, so that it reached his feet with every tide. It seemed to stretch as far as the eye could see, though towers of red lyrium broke up the horizon, sticking out of the ocean like cliff-faces. His shade stared blankly at it, the image of his dead clanmate’s face almost forgotten, though the fear remained, heavy as fog. It soured the Fade around him. In time it would might attract demons like sharks in the water.<p>

Sensing another’s presence, Eirik turned his head to see a much more solid figure. He had conjured up Valasan somehow, who stood beside him. He was different than the rest of his dream, immutable, a stone splitting a stream, green eyes in stark contrast to the monochromatic hues of grays and reds. Eirik greeted him casually, like he would back in the courtyard. <strong style=color:#8a6992>“What are you doing here?”</strong><p> He had forgotten what he had said to him before he’d left for the Storm Coast.

<i>Yes, that was where he was.</i> Eirik looked back out to sea. The visage was a poor reflection of the real thing — tainted by the fear he felt, the slow, creeping terror of captivity. In his dreaming he had forgotten the feeling of restraints. They clattered against the stone whenever he shifted in his sleep.<p>

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Feb 15 2018, 11:24 PM
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<h2>05 Justinian, 9:41</h2>

Finding the culprit behind Valasan’s torture wasn’t hard. Eirik would find that he was far from the first to dig up conclusions. What should have been a clear-cut path to trial — that was where he found resistance, and in the most unlikely sources.<p>

<strong style=color:#8a6992>“You will have us drag a man from the ass end of Thedas to trial, but you won’t do anything now?”</strong> Eirik had quickly realized that the scouts were idle out of complacency. He could see it in their eyes when he approached them with what he thought was news, but was instead common knowledge, buried underneath their feet. The revelation had come suddenly the moment he saw their hesitation. At first he had been silent. He could not remember the last time he had felt so stunned. Slowly recovering, his brows furrowed, making the skin pucker between them. <strong style=color:#8a6992>“He’s one of our own.”</strong><p>

But the <i>shem</i> was too important. Too vital. He had knowledge that no one else had. He was a celebrity; they wrote books about him. He was Hawke, Champion of Kirkwall, Corypheus’ bane, dragonslayer, and viscount all at once. Eirik supposed that gave him the power to do whatever he pleased, though there were others who had been imprisoned for as little as throwing goats at the wall.<p>

Humans were all the same. Every elf who had ever lived within human walls knew it or lived it.<p>

Though his ears were lost and Valasan had already suffered, Eirik wasn’t a boy any longer and neither did human laws have any sway on him, no matter what Skyhold had to say about it, he’d resolved. He had meant to plan it carefully. His clan had taught him to hunt. The Inquisition had honed him as an assassin. No matter his strength, a head was a head, and it would split with a well-aimed arrow. But, of course, Eirik’s focus collapsed the moment he would see Hawke, for his blood had not stopped boiling, and Skyhold was only so large.<p>

<strong style=color:#8a6992>“You savaged him like an animal. You might have murdered him.”</strong> It was an early morning, early enough for the air to be crisp, but late enough for activity to start to flourish. Eirik had been sharpening his hunting knife against a grindstone when he’d seen Hawke, speaking to two strangers. The respect with which they addressed him had pushed him over the edge. He was still holding the knife; he used it to point at him. It drew eyes, but his voice was not loud enough to cause concern, yet. <strong style=color:#8a6992>“What did you do to Vala?”</strong><p>

Eirik’s blue eyes searched his face for lies. He was tense, looking as if he wanted to leap at him, but he waited on the precipice for confirmation or denial.

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