alistairincom

<center><big><strong><em>[ OUT of CHARACTER ]</em></strong></big></center>

<center><strong><em>Name:</em></strong> Tanner (they/them)
<strong><em>Other characters:</em></strong> N/A</center>


<center><big><strong><em>[ IN CHARACTER ]</em></strong></big></center>


<strong><em>Name:</em></strong> Alistair Theirin
<strong><em>Alias:</em></strong> N/A
<strong><em>Fandom:</em></strong> Dragon Age: Origins
<strong><em>Canon point/AU:</em></strong> Alistair will be taken from the unnamed time before Dragon Age: Inquisition-- he was not crowned as King, causing Anora to be the sole queen. He lays in wait after voicing his distaste for the use of blood magic to cure the Mass Calling that all Grey Wardens seem to be hearing, waiting for his Warden to return to him with good news.


<strong><em>Journal:</em></strong> <user name="wardenings">
<strong><em>PB:</em></strong> Alistair Theirin -- Dragon Age: Origins & Inquisition.
<strong><em>Age:</em></strong> Physical, mental age: 35 years old.
<strong><em>History:</em></strong> http://www.dragonage.wikia.com/Alistair ( WIKI has definite spoilers for both Origins and Inquisition.)


<strong><em>Presentation:</em></strong> Coming from a man from a darker backstory, Alistair finds himself struggling to choose a standpoint on the events of modern day that are all based on events of the past, such as the treatment of other groups such as the mages and city elves, all while dancing with the ghosts of his own past. This causes him to have quite a bit of emotional instability, and instead of his emotions becoming harsh and cold, as most male warriors in his world would, his own glide to the trails of anxiety and distrust. However, knowing that such emotions will do little-to-nothing for him in his quest for survival and the revival of the Grey Wardens, he hides behind comedy and sarcasm in hopes of putting on a face that his traveling party will tolerate and have an easier time speaking with.

As for decision-making and understanding who Alistair is, one must take into account that it is a rare day in his life when he makes his own decision; he prefers to follow people he loves and trusts, such as the Warden/Hero of Ferelden (in this verse, his 'Warden' is a young elf woman named Nevas Tabris) -- something he cannot stand, however, is a decision being forced upon him, such as Arl Eamon's quick and persevering desire to put him on the throne ( while he knows that the Arl and he share a familial bond, he quickly caught onto the leader's political move, to use Alistair as a power-gaining tool ).

As well as this, I have chosen to keep him 'unhardened', meaning that instead of becoming more serious and temperamental, he remains to be emotionally unsure of himself, requiring and enjoying what seems to be approval from those around him-- especially those close to him, such as Arl Eamon, the Warden, his sister, Goldanna ( who then, proceeds to step on his heart with her thoughts of him and their blood status ), etc.

On the topic of his sister and his family (the Grey Warden Duncan, Arl Eamon, the Warden and their traveling party), he covets them so due to the fact that he has never truly had one of his own -- his father, the King before his brother Cailan, had never intended to have Alistair and his sister, and his mother's name is rarely spoken of in general. Therefore, when he finds an emotional connection that even resembles family, it's in his nature to latch onto it and not let it go in fear of it letting him go first.


<strong><em>Motivation:</em></strong> Alistair rarely fights or does anything for himself-- in a sense, one could say he's a doormat. However, what he does fight for gives him enough drive to continue to survive and lengthen his adventure (and, in certain cases, the things he fights for end up teaching him a lesson or two about himself); an examples of this could be his relationship with the the Warden/Hero of Ferelden -- in all definitions of the word, he is her senior Warden, but the trust he puts in her and the bond he has with her after the other Wardens are exterminated at Ostagar places her highly, if not the highest point on his 'need to protect' list.

The fact that there are people of Ferelden/Orlesian power currently active in the Games as well (Cullen, Hawke, The Warden/Hero of Ferelden) are reason for Alistair to live as well-- as previously stated, being in a new environment sets the man on edge, and the more people he knows and is familiar with, even if they do not recognize him in his active worldstate, would easily relax him and give him peace of mind-- a false hope for tomorrow.

Alternatively, the new challenge would be perfect for Alistair to prove himself to others, to have a song of his own for bards to sing, in a sense. Defeating something other than bandits, demons, darkspawn, etc. would not only boost his ego and confidence in himself, but it would paint him in a light that is something other than 'the follower of the Hero of Ferelden', or 'the bastard son of the king'-- of course, this is not his initial goal, but should it happen along the way would be an added bonus for him.


<strong><em>Setting:</em></strong> Alistair is quite used to dark and despairing battles, but that doesn't mean he's quite desensitized to gory situations, and in a civilization that pits people in an arena again and again, his plan is to find someone he's comfortable with ( a Warden, an Inquisitor, or someone else from the Dragon Age universe ) and keep them to his side for as long as he can. While winning would be preferable ( and perhaps would be his first priority upon his first battle in the arenas, not so much after he goes through an arena or two ), his main goal is to keep his friends close and alive for as long as possible.


<center><big><strong><em>SAMPLES</em></strong></big></center>

<center><big><strong><em>F I R S T - P E R S O N</em></strong></big></center>


( Time. It's nothing but time that hurts the Warden. It's vivid, violent, falling down en route to his love, to the woman to had protected him for so long. The lights are bright, like high-voltage stars beaming down at him; he can practically feel his pupils shrink in cowardice of the bright light, up he sits, back cracking and neck rolling. Like a marionette, he feels, ripped apart and sewed together, ripped apart and sewed together... if only this had happened at Ostagar, how his despairing soul would be a bit lighter with Duncan by his side. )

( The voice causes him to cringe, brow furrowing and a noise of disapproval escaping his lips as his battle-born hands grip at his temples, shaking his head in distaste as he focuses on the words. )

Died? Bloody hell, that's the first--

( Light brown eyes look to a button on his right, and with a quick roll of his head, he turns, pressing the button, looking straight ahead, caring little as to whether or not he was actually recording, per se, but instead, just wanting to get out of here, to return and see if the rest of his party -- they called them alliances out here? -- was alive. )

Death. Where I come from, when you die, you go to the Maker. That's it, that's the end. Rare occasions, you come back as some sort of... abomination, but a damned mage usually has some point in that.

( He looks to the ground, not dejected over the topic of mages, but perhaps more towards the thought of there not being any in this world. Roseate tongue darts across chapped lips as he gathers his thoughts, running through coarse locks of golden hair. )

You don't... you don't have mages in this world. I'd be damned to the deepest crevasses of the Deep Roads by the Chantry for saying something like this, but it would be nice to see one about now.

I'm known for my rambling.

( He looks up, an expression of sheer despair crossing his maw, nostrils flaring, eyes deepened, dark circles wrapped around his oculi, on the brink of tears-- what if he never sees them again? The thought drives him mad. )

I just wish to go home.

<center><big><strong><em>P R O S E / 3 R D P E R S O N</em></strong></big></center>


He's never been an impressive man.

Taken from homes, slammed from bastard son to adopted child to Chantry boy to ex-Templar to Grey Warden, to a member of the party of the Hero of Ferelden. It's a touch confusing, all these lights and the men watching him, their eyes beading down on him like the bright city lights of Denerim.

Impress me, their eyes read, and he wipes his lips with the back of his hand, where are his companions? His darling leader, that bastard witch of a girl, the large soldier Qunari... so many people he claims to have hated over their journeys into their cataclysmic world, and now? Now he misses them so very dearly.

It's a blade that stands before him, and, ironically, the medieval weapon is the most familiar thing to the man in the room. His footfalls echo as he steps forward, drawing the attention of the men and women in the box hovering above him ( seriously, is that some sort of neo-magic? ) all eyes on him like he is the ringmaster of a band of travelling minstrels. Impress me, their eyes read, and impress them he will.

As he equips the blade in his bladearm, his attention is pulled over his shoulder by a puppet of sorts projected by the floor behind him, the thought of all of this strange magic ( is it even magic now, the Warden wants to question ) startling him and startling him quickly.

But if they want him to impress them, impress him he shall.

Forward does the swordsman launch, propelled in his preferred direction the balls of his feet, gauntlet-less legs feeling nude as the cold air brushes against his flesh. Spare arm void of his favorite kite shield, his mentor's shield, and his sword arm void of his mentor's blade as it normally is equipped, this fight against this static opponent is awkward for the man, but if it's what it takes to return to his family --

A slash to the first, backhanding to the one behind him. Jaw set, the expression of his rage apparent as he ducks and dances, like the male lead in the ballet in this performance of war. He screams, driving the blade into the head of the felt opponent that stands before him. For twenty solid minutes he has danced for these masters of his, the whip cracking at his ankles as he dances. He holds no wounds as these false enemies of his do not hold the offense, but instead act as his slabs of meat to attack and destroy, like the many darkspawn who have fallen to his blade those many years he fought.

A warm breath cascades against his lips, sweat running down tanned, scarred flesh, chest rising and falling in an attempt to cool himself down. His chapped, bleeding lips twitch up into a grin as he turns over his shoulder, arms open and displaying his torn form. Was his dance good enough for these bastards, he thinks, was his performance befitting of a warrior of his stature?

"I would have preferred a shield as well," He laughs, using sardonic humor to lighten the mood, to hold himself up in these dark times as he had during his blight and his times with the Hero of Ferelden. His hand goes to his lips, examining the sanguine fluid stained on the back of his hand before rising to the pink flesh once more, smearing the scarlet against his skin in a piss-poor attempt to blot the bleeding flesh, laughing a little. "But I figured you weren't aware."

He turns over his shoulder, the light in the back signaling his time to exit, rolling his shoulders in this strange, futuristic garb they had him in. Warm breath leaves his lips again as he casts a glance back to the metaphorical dungeon masters of this realm, brown gaze filled with frustration, frowning.

"I will not be defeated until I find them."

<strong><em>What is your character scored:</em></strong> Alistair is quite the formidable opponent in the ring, due to the fact that he has lived in the training of the Templars for this. His comedic skill and overall aesthetic, perhaps, would give him quite a few points, but he is, however, a bit racist and sexist due to the environment in which he was born and raised. Depending on what the audience likes to see and what they are willing to look over, he would rank anywhere from an 8 to a 10.

<strong><em>Token:</em></strong> In order to be given a token that is not a weapon and therefore would not be advantageous to him in the Arena, a token that would symbol quite a bit to Alistair would be his mother's pendant-- a symbol that was given to him while he was in the care of his foster father, Arl Eamon. Upon being told he was to attend the Chantry (the church of his world), he threw it against the wall in a fit of rage. Alistair's morale would double upon receiving this trinket again, perhaps moreso if he was given it by another player of the arena.

<strong><em>Additional information:</em></strong> Alistair's blood is tainted by the darkspawn, therefore it would kill whatever it touched. As well as this, he does possess the powers of a Templar, such as dispelling dark magics and possessing holy fire to do so, but since magics and powers have been nullified by the arenas, these powers would be as well, and even if they were not, they would be useless and therefore he would not use them.