Dragon Age: A Sword of Glass
He shoots arrows into the air, where they fall he knows not where.
Level: 7 Rogue
Dalish Longbow, superior craft by Duerrim. Ironbark construct with Dragonthorn core. (+5)
Mont de Glas Strand, a weapon of masterwork quality. A veridium-silverite laced rapier enchanted to grant its wielder Intensified (mod 1 to generate Stunts) attack rolls and imbues first level talent in Single Weapon Fighting. (+3)
Devra’s Dagger, a keepsake from an extremely unrequited love of old. Fine and balanced for throwing; Roïn felt it’s bite keenly, not in the hand that was caught by it, but in his forever shattered heart.
Medivh, a raven familiar. Attuned to Roïn after a meditation that ascended his spirit in commune with the Avvar gods, Roïn satisfied a challenge by the deity in some way, granting him this raven spirit companion. Through Medivh Roïn can channel his consciousness and perceive all the bird sees as well as coordinate the raven to attack or act as is willed.
- There was an instance where Roïn used Medivh as a vessel for his soul, utilizing the funnel ability to fully transmit his spirit to coincide inside the raven’s form (Typically, 1d6 health from Roïn to Medivh).
- The raven has the ability to burst into light (Brilliance, 2 SP), blinding foes in the area (-4 attack/defense, 5 yd diameter).
- In addition to this, Roïn can synergise an attack with Medivh in moments of complete attunement between master and familiar (3 sp, Roïn fires an arrow that automatically hits alongside Medivh’s strike).
- (25 health, ethereal, requires 16 magic/enchanted to hit, 5 dexterity + stealth, 6 perception + seeing, -1 to all other abilities).
Dweomer Rod, a mysterious rod akin to those crafted by the Golem Crafters of old. Roïn used this artifact to impart a demon harnessed in the rod to possess a great stone sculpture. Much is still unknown of its properties. (uses Magic: Spirit)
Slaver’s Ring, a ring of grisly make capable of shifting earth and stone. (Major Action, 1 yd)
“Of Dusk and Dawn”, a set of two enchanted rings of Tevinter make. A contested spoil from an epic and dire series of battles. Roïn bested his challenger, twice, and took the rings. Upon equipment, he felt the divided boons and curses of the rings harmonize, improving his Constitution (+1).
Veridium Chain, a suit of very fine chainmail forged from the mysterious forest metal. Roïn found this armor quite unwieldy, being unaccustomed to wearing anything other than leather. A templar who was taken with him at one point, left some ingenious harnesses with which to more suitably allow a rogue to equip such armor. It has saved his life on many occasions.
Mark of the Silenced, a tattoo in the likeness of a coiled dragon shadows a part of Roïn’s face. When bravery, cunning, and skill simply are not enough; and the heartbeats can be heard distinctly along ones coming doom: a cursed and powerful darkness exists, dormant in his deceptively fey frame. Conveys the Reaver specialization unto the recipient.
The Oath, a reward for his bravery and (perhaps foolish) fearless honesty before an ailing Grey Warden in the long arduous throes before his inevitable blood corruption. Imbued by the promise of valor and unwavering tenacity within: Roïn draws Courage (+1) while the pendant is worn. The pendant is filled with the Darkspawn Blood from a Grey Warden Joining ceremony.
*Works, Cartography: Mages’ Collective, Redcliffe, The Deep Roads (Route to Undercity), The Frostback Mountains
*Maps, Issued: Loc. Heartseeker of the Dais Thaig (rec. dwarf from deep roads), treasure map (rec. Grey Warden of Undercity)
*Illustrations: Devra, Great Summoning Rune
From Roïn’s journal, “Awakened, Amidst Blood and Steel”
I am Roïn of No Forest. I awoke in the chaos of some slavers’ arena. The first sensation of taste and touch were the dust and smooth, blood stained stone floor. My first sound the drowning of not my own cries, but that of hundreds of bloodthirsty observers. My first sights that of this group who I would come to take arms with and shed blood beside.
From Roïn’s journal, “Traveling: Werefish, The Mages’ Collective”
A blur of memories; encounters, people, and landscape. I do not remember much. I know my name, I know not my forest. I find myself remembering a great many things. That I have traveled to lands far and wide; but it comes back only in glimpses at a time. The group I am party to is a strange mix indeed. I follow them. The three fighters, roguish and warrior alike and the three mages: apostates of blood, spirit, and primal magicks each. We arose from the place of my first consciousness, the slavers arena, in a Mages’ Collective. My benefactors granted me an allowance and a blade. I graciously accepted. I will find my way and cut through the shrouds concealing my past and future. The primal one seems to have found a direction, a quest, from some female magister. We were very well equipped. Our first expedition is across the great Lake Calenhad. I held our craft steady at the helm while the party fended off the several aquatic beasts that assailed us. Me made it to the opposite shore laden with the carcasses of one of our assailants, a great werefish, and that of several great fish caught by our mage’s dexterous fishing skill. Between the primal mage and the crafty dwarf duster they augmented a buckler with the cursed teeth begotten from the werefish. Crude Shemlen crafts, I think. I was afforded a mount as well, ‘Helen’ is the steeds name. Swift is she, and fleet of foot. Looking into the beasts eyes I see glimpses of a memory, staring into the eyes of another mount, a great white stag amidst a dense wood. A memory far set apart from the sparsely wooded plains and the flat and crystalline expanse of the lake. Who am I? Where is the forest? Where am I from?
From Roïn’s journal, “The Weight of an Anvil: Orzammar and the Deep Roads”
I entered the heart of Dwarven civilization with rapture. The wondrous craft of stone and steel all about me held me in amazement. We further stocked provisions and arms here, I think, before going on enroute to the Deep Roads. I met with a curious dwarven artisan here that offered a reward from lyrium dust. From the same artisan my benefactors purchase for me a fine crossbow in the Fereldan fashion with a quiver of 20 steel crossbolts. A mighty construct indeed. Upon wielding it, I find myself working it with expert dexterity. I contemplate: I was, am, an archer. I continue to tour the city, turn into the inn for a nights rest alongside the rest of the party, and continue onwards. Along the way I am illuminated unto the details of our particular quest. We have been commissioned by a mage of great substance in the Mages’ Collective to retrieve a magical anvil from some dwarven keep lost long ago in the Deep Roads and infested by Darkspawn. The entrance to and the location of the keep in question was availed to us in Orzammar and our road would now take us to perils that would prove both our steel and will.
From Roïn’s journal, “The Weight of an Anvil: Spirits, Beasts, and Darkspawn”
(notes heavily smeared with dried blood)
It is unlike anything I have seen (or can remember). Not a day into our excursion into the Deep do we encounter a pair of darkspawn envoys and other perils. We find strained respite in a defensible cavern formation the first ‘night.’ I find myself initially unnerved by the claustrophobia, but find solace in the earth and stone, home to the roots of life above. It is a small thought that is put far from our minds as we came across another darkspawn patrol. We cleave through this patrol readily, our melee arm sweeping them off guard with the searing support of our primal mage blazing fire and ice upon the field. We were barely laying the finishing blow on the last of them whence an enraged and feral beast barreled out of the darkness and set upon us. A ‘bronto’ our dwarven companions cried in alarm, a great beast of burden, once domesticated by the dwarves. This one, wild and with a certain bloodlust in its charge assailed us in a furious rage. Through our combined efforts; my arterial strike; the warriors’ rodeo engagements; and the mages’ magical bombardments, the great beast was finally brought to its knees. Memories of hunts long past assail me briefly. I honored the beast’s spirit by speaking a hunter’s prayer for the hunted and slain, cut out its heart, and drank of its blood.
The Shemlen walked off, paying no such honors. Do they treat the contest of life with so little respect? I take another draught of the life we had dispatched.
We encounter a sorely wounded dwarf. The sole surviving member of a dwarven envoy that braved the deep roads. He refused to continue with our party choosing to brave the dark roads to see what became of his compatriots. A brave soul, worthy of the stone should that be his fate.
We come across the ruins of a crafting outpost populated by the ghostly visages of dwarven wraiths, endlessly going through the throes of their last actions before they were obliterated. It is their vengeance that keeps them entrapped in these memories it seems. Their souls warped and torn to exist as these spirits, these ethereal memories. Dangerous as well as I was the first to find. We camped here for a night, at once safer for the walls, but ill at ease for the ghostly apparitions that would unerringly and regularly transit and perform the memory they have been doomed to repeat for eternity. I station myself upon a rooftop of one of the subterranean buildings, scouting ahead for danger.
A great envoy of patrols and darkspawn come down upon the encampment. They obliterate all dwarven spirits they come across; the leader wielding some sort of enchanted weapon that rend through the wraiths and tore their spirits asunder. I realize there is no way to communicate to my comrades barricaded in the building I am atop. I pray they don’t do anything stupid.
No telling with Shemlen though.
The envoy passes. I come down to inform them of the army that overlooked us and go to secure the perimeter of scouts. Which I readily encounter. I stealthily stalk them back into the camp and our party ambushes the unwary scouts before they have the chance to report back. It is a quick kill.
The mages depart to retrieve a staff they left behind. They come back happy. The dwarves and I examine ways to rig a bridge along the way to collapse. Entertaining conjecture. We see in the distance a great keep of some kind: The Legion of the Dead. “Allies, they may be,” so says the dwarven comrade, “or not.”
From Roïn’s journal, “The Weight of an Anvil: Deadly Shrieks, Undercity”…
A parting prayer for the released dwarf spirits and we continued forth. Myself and the dwarf rogue set out ahead to scout. It was not long until we came across the party that I recognized as one of the greater escorts to the army. We assailed them. I decided to forgo my bow and thrust myself into the melee with my blade. Foolishly. The great and hulking darkspawn I challenged pressed with a wicked ferocity, bringing me to my knees with his two devilish curved twin daggers. Rescued by my comrades and our coordinated strikes, we finally vanquish them, though at cruel cost to our own health. I took some savage blows from the beast, who’s weapons were tossed my way. I belted the sheathed daggers, stained with my own blood and that of my allies. We pressed on grimly.
The magisters decided to take a moment of respite while the dwarf and I again scouted ahead. We came across a pair of beastly darkspawn; shrieks. Deadly and efficient predators; gruesome in their effectiveness. They bounded for me, having taken point. The one on me pouncing on my back as I turned to flee, the other leaping past for my dwarven compatriot. The savage protrusions from its arms tore into my back and body as it brought me to the ground. I felt the end as it tore open wounds only just bandaged from our previous encounter. The dwarf and his pursuer disappeared around a bend. The grisly gnashing of teeth and the guttural death whispers of the shriek buffeting all other sounds. The sounds of the earth. The roiling, living earth. The searing heat of it’s magma lifeblood flowing below. With desperate dexterity, I freed myself from the creature’s hold and barreled into him full force. This final assault took the monster off guard, but more importantly, off the ledge of the precipice overlooking one of the great magma floes in the Deep. I gritted my teeth, my vision limned in red, scouring the surroundings for more assailants, for my ally. I pick him out far back, in dire struggle himself against another shriek. I load a bolt into the crossbow and let fly, aiding in his dispatch of the other shriek down into the lava floes.
Our allies find us in a sorry state… “Death is the road to awe.”
From Roïn’s journal, “The Weight of an Anvil: To Fight an Ogre”
A light at the end of the passage where we encountered the shrieks gave renewed energy to our steps; there was a unanimous hope for a small reprieve. For light.
The sight would be replaced by darkspawn, a legion of them in patrol about the Undercity we sought and had now found. Illuminated to high-noon like brilliance by a great crystal beset in the great cavern’s ceiling, the metropolis before us was not unlike the great masonic splendor I had witnessed in Orzammar. Atop a central building was a figure seated upon a throne beside the Anvil we sought, it’s glow and magnificence captivating even at that distance. The wonder of it all was brought to earth with a reverberating thud. From our high vantage, we discovered several of the patrols were bolstered by beastly ogres, the like of which brought terror and grim gazes from all about the party. We happened across some golems, guardians of some noble dwarven clan in the city. The party left to scour the clan manor for the device which would allow them to give life to the statue and bring it to our control. I took to the rooftops, scouting the vicinity and diverting patrols attentions away from the preparations of the party.
Battle ensues. I managed to lure a whole patrol into the building I was atop and seal the foolish creatures in. The Ogre is brought to bear upon our party. Our golem guardian matches the great fearsome beast toe to toe. Melee on the ground and archers up top, we snipe out the darkspawn mages as they attempt to bolster the ogres monstrous strength. The dwarven fighter launches a flask of this fiery liquor we obtained in Orzammar. It strikes the ogre in combination with a fiery barrage at the hand of our primal mage. The fireball in addition to a great many barrages of spells, blades, arrows, and the sacrifice of our great golem bring the beast down. Its darkspawn handlers and envoy disperse, their vanguard broken. We rose to scale the steps towards the anvil and the armor clad guardian seated enthroned beside it.
From Roïn’s journal, “The Weight of an Anvil: Invictus, the Oath”
(sketches of the Grey Warden seated upon throne overlooking Undercity:
proud but staggered due to the final stages of darkspawn toxicity)
A Grey Warden stares across a ruined city deep in the ground, far from peaceful sky or soothing seas. I stood not before him, but beside him. Unflinchingly, with a heart to brave the maelstrom of the darkness. To brave destiny when all others only see death.
Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the [Fade],
And yet the menace of the years
Finds and shall find me unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.
(Invictus, by Henley)
From Roïn’s journal, “The Weight of an Anvil: Spoils”
(self-portrait; detailing a jagged and dark wyvern tattoo)
We set out to escape from the Deep Roads. The spoils of our conquests in tow. Asides from the Anvil, we had looted a considerable sum of gold, gems, materials and other artifacts from our excursion in the darkspawn infested deep and through our initial fittings in preparation for the journey. Our primal mage had found a girder defending him from deaths that had occurred to their previous owners, a staff that could summon a great invisible water craft, another staff of some power, and cloth armor with a headdress providing some mysterious boons. The dwarf obtained a katar like blade with a bladed defensive hilt contraption. I gave him my serrated blade when he professed a desire to dual wield it with another weapon. The other fighters obtained some weapons and armor of varying quality in the Deep Roads but obtained their most valuable fittings during our trip to Orzammar. Their arms and armor were of great strength and enchantment; an axe imbued with a mighty flaming ability and armor with improved fortitude against melee attacks. My interests were fairly frugal; taking for my own but a small nugget of lyrium I found amidst the rubble of the demolished golem and a beautiful obsidian tablet with the likeness of a dragon on it. A small compartment at the bottom of the tablet caught my attention. I remember setting the lyrium nodule inside out of curiosity: what followed could only have been a dream. The dragon upon the tablet came alive, slid up my arm akin to a living tattoo, and snaked up to my face. A searing pain. I wake up from this dream many times. It besets even my meditation and reveries. I wake up from sheer force of will. The tablet was shattered, obsidian slivers everywhere, the lyrium and compartment no where to be found.
From Roïn’s journal, “The Weight of an Anvil: Devra and Death”
(a lock of Devra’s hair, a leaf she stepped on)
She seemed to be Andruil reborn. Who would have imagined such grace would be among the ranks of the Templar? Who would have imagined what I would come to do in order to fall into her good graces? Who could know about the betrayals, the intrigue, and overlying incredulity of events coming to pass as they have?
Upon our exit of the Deep Roads we found ourselves near the town of Redcliff. Here we took a small reprieve on our way back to the Mages’ Collective. We are beset by some assassins. I was asleep at the time, but it seems they were sent to slay us and take the Anvil. I happen across Devra in the woods. We stalk one another, dancing as only shadows can, singing to one another a silence as only ghosts know. She makes a mark on me.
In the Mages’ Collective we find ourselves swindled, the Anvil stolen in our sleep. We confronted the mage, our employer, who we suspected of betrayal. We found that it was the Council of the Mages’ Collective at fault and proceeded to plot for the Anvil’s recovery.
The foolhardy Shemlen chose diplomacy in what would obviously lead to their perilous demise. That primal mage always looks to barter for that which he has nothing but cantrips to exchange. I rode in with an entourage of Templars alongside my dear Devra. We swept asunder the party assailing two of my compatriots at the Council gates and proceeded towards the inner chambers.
Fearsome battle; by sword and spell. In the aftermath, our human apostates were nowhere to be found, having made their escape with the arrival of the Templars. The Templars in turn chose to bide their time and slay us all, retreating to gather their forces for a full on assault on the Collective. It came down to two rogues and fighters, blades and arrows ready against the might of the assembled Council, their fearsome magicks, and powerful mercenaries. By arrow and steel, we struck them and their magical constructs down. But not before one of our own was mortally wounded by a hellish demon of rage that was the summon of one of the Council mages.
By blood and alcohol did I revive him. Borrif. Friend. Dwarf. Nearly dead myself, by some unknown knowledge and energies that I felt course through my veins I imparted life once again to my comrade. He lives.
Discovered Reeds’ journal and the corpses of the members of the Council that had retreated from battle earlier. Witnessed a magnificent and awesome rune, transcribed the rune into Reeds’ journal with masterful illustrative accuracy. Our party, divided. The human apostates unknown, and the lot of us suffering grievous wounds: our way is that to escape and survive. Regret starts to well in my heart at having led Devra, and more specifically her lot, here.
Silent steel into my heart. Devra betrays us, me. We are at our last stand before the impossible might of the Templars dogging us at each turn in our escape from the Collective.
The primal mage has found his way back into our ranks only just as our dwarf rogue turns tail and flees in our most dire hour. Would have expected more of a dwarf; Shemlen and rogue though he may be. The warriors and mages both pit their might against that of the Templar Captain and my bitter love, Devra. The might of the Knight Commander holds us all in thrall; as if empowered by their Maker himself. Devra’s dagger in hand, caught, straight through my hand. I tear it out, wincing not so much for the keen pain of the exiting blade so much as the treason of affection; this is the maelstrom. Such was my vow. I plunge the dagger into my thigh, seeing death, and taking his likeness by faith in the demonic promise of the obsidian statue.
The draw is easy, my vision pulsing and limned in red, honing in on the Commander’s eyes.
For a moment, we see each other. And we both know.
I let fly.
He knows he is to die.
And I do, too.
He falls. I remember thinking as I collapsed after the release of that arrow, the truest that I’ve ever flown:
“I’ve lost an arrow..”
And then so came the darkness.
From Roïn’s journal, “The Arrow and the Song”
(BY HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW)
I shot an arrow into the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For, so swiftly it flew, the sight
Could not follow it in its flight.
I breathed a song into the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For who has sight so keen and strong,
That it can follow the flight of song?
Long, long afterward, in an oak
I found the arrow, still unbroke;
And the song, from beginning to end,
I found again in the heart of a friend.