Ulric (Approved) | As Above, So Below: A Dragon Age RP

Ulric (Approved)

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ulric

Aug 27, 2018 21:03:27 GMT -5

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Post by ulric on Aug 27, 2018 21:03:27 GMT -5

Ulric

While they do wrong I will be there, watching from the back of their mind. I will become their god from whom they fear retribution.

general info

CLASS Rogue	GENDER Masculine
AGE Thirty-Six	RACE Elf
ORIENTATION Demisexual	OCCUPATION Assassin

appearance

The easiest means to describe Ulric's is capable. 5'9" with a physique made stocky with muscle. Broad shoulders, thick thighs and swollen arms. His silhouette could be cut with a knife, with nary a straying line. His head is shaved clean, his clothes without excess fabric, tight but flexible, constricting but protective. A leather cuirass protects his middle. His forearms, hands and shins are plated with metal. In dim light, his fingers could be mistaken for claws.

There may have been a time where Ulric may have been considered pretty. High but soft cheekbones, a perfect, dark olive complexion and stunning blue eyes, but now he emanates only an oppressive severity. His gaze is intense, and his shaven head further emphasizes his hooked nose and thin lips. Hawkish and predatory, his is an appearance that is a quiet kind of violence.

personality

There is little left of Ulric, for he has given all of himself to his cause. He has done without people for a long time, moving beside them but never with them. Watching but never participating. His devotion to disrupting Tevinter's slave trade (an unending war to be certain), has resulted in a colorless life. He breathes, sleeps, and eats because he must, not because he enjoys to. He lives because his existence might guarantee a better existence for another. A freed slave. A dead vint. One, two, twenty, a hundred - it doesn't matter, so long as it is done at every given opportunity.

Ulric cares deeply for people, and empathizes to the point of righteous fury, despite having nothing but a sparse few scattered allies, and neither friend or family. While he does not seek out conversation, he remains a steadfast shoulder and listening ear for those who need it. There is a soft heart beneath the facade of metal and leather. Ulric is as honest and respectful as he is capable of cruel brutality to those who have suffered him as their last judge, jury and executioner.

history

Ulric’s is a slave’s past. He cannot recall a time before it. What one suffers as such can certainly be imagined and does not need to be repeated. All one needs to know is that Ulric was born in the Dales, from a dalish clan he cannot recall. He suffered beneath Orlesian masters before being sold to Tevinter slavers. He was thirteen when he met Marius. Wonderful, perfect Marius. A powerful, well spoken of and respected Magister among his peers - a rare thing.

Marius was gentle in his cruelty. It was easy to see how the elf had suffered in his past. Easy to to placate, soothe and mold. Ulric would love Marius, would die for Marius, and fear his disappointment above all else. Marius’ tortures were subtle, a disinterested gaze, a bored sigh that could leave Ulric in dread. Ulric’s love for Marius was his tether. In the years to come he would become the Magister’s shadow and blade, and Marius even further uncontested in the Magisterium.

It was sudden when it occurred. Marius bled out upon the stone cold tile, hands pressed over his open throat. His hand had been upon Ulric’s thigh, lips at his jaw, “you would be powerful, and everyone would know you were mine. Tomorrow morning, it will be quick.” It would be quick, and Ulric would be dead. Not many survived Lyrium infusion - least of all those who held no magic, and those who did often suffered so greatly that they could not even remember themselves after it had been done, some even driven to madness and ultimately put down.

”and if I die?”

“That is not a certainty.”

Ulric ran. In time, he came to understand Marius’ cunning and manipulation, even after weeping at his death, at his own betrayal of the one he had viewed as a savior. In time, this understanding fostered a vengeful hatred. His wrath took on a presence in Tevinter - The Mage Killer. Slavers found flayed, ships burned, caravans left with nothing but the rotting corpses of those who steered them and empty shackles of their once wards. Trepidation wracked those who were required to leave Tevinter to obtain their stock, and a steady rift began to form in the economics of the trade. He was reckless, at first - then careful. Practiced and methodical. Four bloody years followed, and then exhaustion.

He was taken in by a Dalish clan in the Free Marches after narrowly saving the keeper’s children from a bear. Stories of the Mage Killer waned. Andruil’s bow was drawn across his forehead - he could not even speak Dalish, but now he was marked as one.

He returned to the hunt for several more successful years, and then an impossible misstep. He knew not where or how, but it had occurred. They had come to know his face and his movements, and they came for him. The Mage Killer was not a vengeful ghost but a mortal and could be killed, and nearly was. His pursuers died, but many more would come, and they would tread more carefully.

Ulric fled to the Inquisition. A mass of confused bodies and ideals, and he would be but another in the fray. It would be enough, for now.

sample

His breaths were wet. Thick. The consistency of mud. Each intake of air was a choke , the red earth in his throat frothing with each passage of breath. He coughed desperately, life spilling out of his mouth and nostrils, black as the black marble it spilled upon. Forearms skidding across broken glass he trembled, fighting to right himself as his vivacity waned. One arm wrapped tight around his center to keep the rest of him from flowing - no, falling out.

Slick, bubbling whistles of breath were loud in the empty hall, but were deafened to him by his heart beating in his ears. His forehead pressed to the cold floor as he gave in to gravity, dark hair pooling about his face as the black closed around his vision. Blood seeped through his teeth, filling the grout of the tile like rainwater in small, black rivers. Body sinking flat to the floor, his life spread from him in a dark wet halo, creating canals among the ancient, painstakingly placed mosaic. This house stood long before him, and now would stand longer still because of his sacrifice.

The sound that left him when he was hefted upward was indecent - like a wild hound caught in a trap. His darkening vision was split open with white, hot pain. It startled the guardsman enough to drop him - having thought he was dead. The sound of him hitting the floor was slick and squelching.

“Fools! Get out of the way. Move.”

He could hardly feel the movement then, being turned onto his back, his arms hung uselessly over his middle. The silk of Marius’ robe was soft on his face, when he breathed upon it, it grew speckled with his blood. He wheezed in an effort to acknolwedge his master,

“That’s enough.” His voice was so quiet - as if it would harm him to hear it, to be disturbed in the slightest.

“I did it--,” he pressed, drawing in a labored breath, “it’s done-.”

“I’m glad, now be quiet, my darling. Regardless you’ve done enough.”

The Magister’s hand pressed over his middle, sinking into the torn leather, Ulric moaned weakly from the pain of it, and then felt the magic seep into his skin, spread through his veins and warm his fingers. The light of it lit the back of his eyelids like stars, before they dimmed, and the world around him darkened.

ooc info

◈ NAME

MegHanSolo

◈ PLOTTER
>>Here<<

◈ OTHER CHARACTERS

There'll be quite a few if this goes well

◈ FACE CLAIM

I'll be illustrating Ulric's portrait shortly...

THIS CHARACTER BELONGS TO MegHanSolo.

MADE BY ★MEULK OF GS & THQ

Edited Aug 29, 2018 18:29:07 GMT -5 By ulric

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Post by ulric on Aug 27, 2018 21:03:27 GMT -5