Zillam Reynardine

Name: Zillam Reynardine
Age: 24
Sex: Sure why not- oh, you mean what manner of bits and bobs have I? Male~

Class: Rogue
Specializations: Duelist
Favored skills: Drinking. Wordplay, almost always of the alliterative assortment. Pinpoint Strike. Pinpoint Strike while drinking. Partaking in potent potables and wordplay. Pinpoint Strike while whipping out witticisms. Really, any and all combinations of the three. Oh, also, drinking. Alcohol, of course, if the matter in question was in question.

Appearance: "You may call me tall, dark, and handsome."

• Hair color: Midnight green
  
• Eye color: Sea green
  
• Skin color: Tan
  
• Height: 5'11"
  
• Weight: Roughly 155 lbs
  
• Build: Lithe
  

He is 5'11" and smiling confidently. He shakes his head amusedly, his midnight green ponytail swinging back and forth. (He's probably got a touch of elf in him, somewhere, somehow - even though nothing else about him seems particularly elven.) His eyes are a much lighter color, though; they remind folk of the green of the sea. In fact, a lot about Zillam remind people of the sea: his confident, swaying swagger like the water's waves, his flowing clothes, banded in dark greens and deep blues - a loose shirt with cuffed sleeves, leather gloves, loose, fitted trousers coming down past the knees, and tough leather boots. His skin, tanned from all the time spent in the sun, smells of the salt sea air. A long, curved saber hangs at his side, loose in the scabbard, ready to come out quick as an oceam storm. Like the many skeleton ships resting upon the ocean's floor, beneath Zillam's clothes, scars from his youth run about his body - telling a tale of terrible ravages.

Personality: "I'm either the least or most interesting man you'll ever know, my dear."
Looking at Zillam, one can already tell he is an entertaining man to be around. An almost perpetual half-grin plastered on his face, Zillam's swaggering and swaying gives more away about what he's like than anything he can say - and he says a lot. Talking more often than not, Zillam treats his loquaciousness as a strong point of his personality; "after all, we have mouths for a reason, right?" (Granted, in context, he said this while flirting with a party of women, and he wasn't talking about using mouths for talking; still, his general attitude with regards to humanoid anatomy is roughly this - that everything has a reason, and every reason has a thing.) Always the first to laugh and never the last to lay down a line, Zillam seems more suited to posh parties than to being anything near a soldier.

Zillam is far from the typical anything. There's always a glint in his eyes, one that belies a character quirk that's hard to note in a man who's known for his lethal alacrity. As he says, "the only thing faster than my mouth is my sword - and the only thing faster than my sword is my mouth. It's all very, very discombobulating when you're trying to be witty in the midst of stabbing a man through the heart."

That is to say, there is a (very good) chance that Zillam Reynardine is stark, raving mad. But you wouldn't know it, just strolling along the ship's deck chattering with him. No, it's not until you and he and the rest of the ship are beset by pirates that his (possible) insanity manifests itself. Perhaps the reason Zillam chatters constantly is to keep himself in check - to drown out the (potential) madness that (might) dwell deep in his (hypothetical) soul.

"Honestly, I doubt it. I think it's just because silence disconcerts me and I'm afraid of being a lonely outcast from society. Maybe I talk all the time because, at least in talking, people hear me - even if they don't listen to me. Y'know what Freya said: 'to be forgotten is worse than death.' In a crowd of living, breathing people, maybe that's my one fear - not death (as can be evinced by the fact that I am carrying an Andraste-be-damned rapier into a battle), but oblivion."

Hobbies:: "We'll drink, sing, and make noise under the moon!"
Drinking wine, fighting, drinking beer, wrestling, drinking liquor, bear-fighting, drinking spirits, bear-wrestling, drinking fruity drinks with umbrellas in them, gutting pirate scum, drinking away the nightmares, gutting slaver scum, drinking to drown his sorrows, freeing slaves, and did I mention the drinking?

Background: "Please allow me to introduce myself. I'm a man of wealth and taste."
They'll tell you, it doesn't happen. It never happens. Such inhumanity? Preposterous. They will say - we are a civilized people, not savages. Not even the scum of our earth would stoop to such lows. Our Most Gracious Empress has outlawed even that, in regards to the elves - can't you see how forward-thinking and humane and civilized we are?

It still happens. It has happened before, and it will happen again. Zillam knows. Zillam was born on a merchant ship, after all; one prowling the Waking Sea, carrying, primarily, trade goods. And for most of his youth, he spent his life on a merchant ship that prowled the Waking Sea, carrying, primarily, trade goods. It was not a particularly enjoyable life, for Zillam. Few things were, when you were Zillam Reynardine - the endless tracts of water were terribly, horribly boring. Being an "indentured servant" in the employ of a well-off pirate gang since you were born wasn't all that fun either, to be honest.

So Zillam left. Granted, it wasn't as easy as that. First he had to endear himself to the captain of the ship - do so much bowing and scraping, so much boot-licking and and brown-nosing, that for several years Zillam had a stoop and couldn't taste much but shoe leather. (The less said metaphorically about his olfactory sense the better.) For those years, Zillam kept himself sane the only way a boy could - grand tales of legendary warriors of old he'd be lucky enough to hear from the talk of pirates or, more rarely (and more preciously), during those lucky, lucky, invaluable trips ashore to some dingy, dirty tavern or another that happened to have a bard. In particular, he admired - adored - loved, in the best and worst senses of the word - Aveline, Knight of Orlais, and her story. And for those years, she was his darling, and he was her dear, and they kept each other company even when the blows rained harder than the skies.

Then he had to kill the pirate captain - no easy task, as the man was a formidable duelist. The man was also absolutely overconfident - he thought he had Zillam completely and utterly cowed. So he taught the boy how to fight - enough to defend "your rightful master, me!" This was a grave mistake. Not that Zillam was stupid enough to try to fight and kill the captain.

Instead, under the guise of delivering a late meal to the captain, Zillam killed the pirate in his sleep. The fighting skills were going to be used to hold off any of the (very) angry crew. The meal was for himself - Zillam planned to hold off a siege. The pirates? Well, they couldn't really go about destroying their own ship, and so they tried their damnedest to kill the boy while at the same time, sailing to their next port.

Luckily for Zillam, the pirate captain was absolutely, entirely paranoid about mutiny, and kept the cabin very well-stocked with weapons galore. The story of the battle of the boy who would come to be known as Zillam Reynardine, in the cabin and on the deck of the merchant ship Soaring Prophets ("It is a verbal pun, you see") is an epic one - and one that will probably never get told in its full glory, as it involves glorious metaphors and overdone imagery for people getting their day absolutely ruined in the worst ways possible.

When Soaring Prophets ("Get it yet?") finally arrived in Val Chevin's docks, there were only four people aboard; a boy, two men, and a woman. All were severely malnourished, and the boy had suffered some very, very grievous wounds.

He got better.

The Soaring Prophets's ("Profits, geddit?!") cargo? Contraband, of course; but Zillam collected on the rather-large bounty that had been placed on the heads of the rather-famous pirate crew. With it, he got a lovely plot of land and established a small, but comfortable home. But that wasn't what he wanted out of life.

Pursuing his dream of becoming a Chevalier, the Butcher of the Soaring Prophets ("Ahhaha, those clever, witty bastards... I'm glad I killed them all to a man, really; a pun like that, they deserved it") joined Orlais' military, picking a name (up until now, he had only ever gone by the eponym "boy"); and though he got hang of the horse, he never quite mastered the lance, instead favoring swords - and not typical two-edged, straight-bladed swords, but the curved saber, light and quick, was more his preference; and he did not at all enjoy the weight of a shield - and there was also the issue of his lack of noble lineage. And his quirkiness as a person - not necessarily undisciplined, but incredibly garrulous, nearly to a fault; and other, more general fun-having behaviour that is atypical of the dour harshness of a Chevalier who has finished the training to be knighted as a Chevalier.

As such, he has taken to wandering the land for a bit - taking in the sights and sounds and history of the world; for his education is rather lacking, what with the whole "grew up as a pirate slave" thing that dominated his childhood. (No, he's not bitter about it. Well, not too bitter. It really depends on what he's drinking at the time. Certain drinks are incredibly bitter.)

Weapons/Armor: "En garde! Ahaha- wait, what does that even mean?"
One count of long, hard, slightly curved wickedness - his saber, you pervert! - and a couple knives, mostly of the survival (as opposed to the "killing" or "throwing") sort. Zillam likes traveling light, as befits his saber-swishing, buckle-swashing style of swordplay. In light of this lightness, he rarely wears anything heavier than hardened studded leather, perhaps with a light chainmail coat underneath it all - or perhaps not. Really, it's all up to his fancies and whims, and Zillam is, if nothing else, fancy and whimsical.

I am a terrible person and you should hate me for this, forever.

-- Griffinhart

~Reserved~

There will be things here. Later. Eventually. Someday. When I'm not so lazy.

(There will never be things here. I am too lazy.)

-- Griffinhart

Approved.