Joran Backstrom- Personality and History

[joran]

PB: Rufus Sewell
RP Examples:

Sample 1:
Joran awoke just before first light still with the unfamiliar sound of the sea in his ears, a never ending susurration he found vaguely disquieting, like the murmur of voices just beyond reach of understanding. He threw his blanket off and rolled up to a seat. Melker, his fellow Warden, was a barely visible lump on his bed snoring softly.

He arose and dressed quietly in everything but his armor, as there was no way to avoid waking his companion if he started strapping in. He slipped from their room and walked the short hallway to the deserted common. If the innkeeper was up and about, there was no sign of him. He passed through to the exit and stepped out into air that reeked of fish, sewage, foundry runoff, and pitch. That was all he managed to distinguish before his nose gave up on the task and refused to give him more input. It was so different from the dry, sterile air of Weisshaupt or Hossberg. The humidity felt oppressive. His clothing was already clinging and had been a touch damp when he donned it.

What's one more adjustment? he thought a little grimly. From the moment he received his orders to travel to Ferelden with his native companion, everything had changed. He had immersed himself in a new language, a new way of thinking, everything it would take not to stand out too much in a land very different from his own. From his first sighting of the Arlathan Forest with its towering, resentful trees and numerous ruins onward, he had found himself in increasingly alien territory, grateful for Melker's experience in dealing with foreigners and different terrains.

Now they were in Kirkwall, scheduled to board a ship that would carry them across the Waking Sea to Highever. From the moment he had seen the immense stone city, he had hated it with a quiet, seething passion. Its architecture bore the stamp of its days as part of the Imperium. Its people held a highhanded disdain of foreigners that reminded him of certain Orlesians he had met over the years. He didn't need to understand their language to read their snide expressions and tones of voice. The Docks District was slightly more tolerable due only to the influx of so many from distant ports of call. It had been dizzying the day before to hear the varied accents and languages being spoken all around him, a senseless cacophony Melker seemed to take in stride. What didn't Melker take in stride, he wondered?

He knew better than to stray far from the inn. His sword wouldn't be of much use to him against an entire gang of thugs, particularly when he wasn't wearing armor. One archer would be enough to pick him off. He didn't present much of an attractive target by deliberate intention, an unassuming man in a travel worn jerkin and shirt, faded breeches, and heel worn and scuffed boots, carrying a serviceable long sword and minding his own affairs.

All he wanted was a look at the sea uninterrupted, time to fill his eyes with the view without having to worry about Melker snapping at him not to be such a tourist or someone else knocking him into the water for being in the way. He carefully scanned up and down the quay before climbing down a short ladder to a floating dock. He went dizzy almost immediately and reached to steady himself on a weathered post. It was the first time in his life he'd had anything under his feet that wasn't solid ground.

He felt queasy, but underneath it was something important, something rare. He realized that for the first time in a very long time he was excited about what was to come. It was something most would likely have taken for granted, a short sea voyage. For Joran at one time in his life it may have been as distant as the stars. The fact that it now lay directly before him filled him with a small, boyish thrill.

When the sun's first rays peeked over Kirkwall's imposing sky line and hit the water, he gasped aloud. "Maker be praised," he murmured. He had seen much of beauty and much of mystery on his journey so far, but he knew that this view of the Waking Sea stolen in isolation on a rare whim was something he'd take to his grave and feel richer in the having.

Sample 2:
"He needs help!" Joran snapped, pointing toward Melker shivering in his hammock and raving mostly unintelligible things. What Joran could make out sounded like the contents of Darkspawn dreams. It was probably for the best no one else did seem to understand.

"Do you not understand me?" He repeated himself in Anders and then again in Fereldan.

"I understand you," the sailor said. "What do you expect me to do? Do I look like a mage to you? A healer? Ain't nobody on board like that. I'd know if there was. I can have the boy bring him another blanket. That's the best you're going to get."

He bit back a curse and nodded. He had never seen a sickness come on so quickly or take someone down so far so fast. He moved closer and lay a hesitant hand on the fever ravaged brow. Melker had been going from wet to dry in alarmingly quick cycles, but none of the sweats seemed to break the fever. "They're bringing you a blanket," he said. He didn't know if the man could hear him, although he seemed to calm under his touch. The two had rarely seen eye to eye about anything on the road, one or the other always on each other's nerves. None of that mattered to him now. He intended for both of them to arrive at their new post together.

He was on the verge of going to look for the cabin boy when the child arrived with a moth eaten, scratchy blanket folded in his arms. Joran took it and tucked it over the other one. When he realized the child lingered, he sent him to fetch some water as well and a cloth he could use for dipping.

He kept his vigil all night. When Melker raved, he did what he could to soothe him. When he quieted, he tried to get sips of water down him without choking him. Toward morning it seemed the man had slipped into deep sleep. After a time, his breaths began to draw out longer on the exhale, and then longer yet. Joran sighed. He had witnessed enough death in his life to know what it meant. He began a soft prayer in Anders. *"Many are those who wander in sin, despairing that they are lost forever, but the one who repents, who has faith unshaken by the darkness of the world, and boasts not, nor gloats over the misfortunes of the weak, but takes delight in the Maker's law and creations, she shall know the peace of the Maker's benediction."

By the time he completed the rest of the verse, Melker was gone. He drew the blanket over his face and moved to go tell the captain. It was his ship. If he was concerned the sickness could spread, he had the right to dispose of the body as he saw fit. As far as Joran was concerned, the important part of Melker was already gone. He'd waste no sentiment on a body beyond seeing that the remains were handled respectfully.

It was a terrible way for anyone to go, though not as bad as many he had witnessed. It wasn't like the corruption. It didn't seem he was aware of himself at all toward the end. "Poor bastard," he muttered, and that was that. Dwelling further would do nothing.

He reflected that it was a good thing he had pestered Melker with his numerous questions on the road and that the man had insisted they converse in nothing but Fereldan together no matter how atrocious he was with the language when they had started. He was going to have to rely on everything he could recall and what halting skill he now possessed. Until he could reach the other Wardens in Amaranthine, he was on his own.

* (Prayer taken from the Chant of Light, Transfigurations 10:1.)

Character

Name: Joran Backstrom
Age: 38
Place of Origin: Hossberg, the Anderfels
Race: Human
Class: Warrior
Specialization: Templar
Talents: Sword and Shield, Defender

Appearance:
Height/weight: 6', 187 lbs.

Handedness: Left handed

General Information: Joran has curly black hair, hazel eyes, and a medium skin tone.

He has several scars, two arrow puckers, one at the juncture of his left arm and pectoral, another just above his right hip that was a through and through, the exit wound scar on his lower back larger. A nasty ax scar mars his right shoulder and upper chest. The collar bone has a knot from the setting where the bone was shattered. When he stretches both hands above his head, it appears his right arm is approximately an inch shorter than the left because of the displacement. It still aches in particularly cold, wet weather. Other more minor scars mar his arms and legs, all of the above products of living in a dangerous land without always having access to armor.

Despite possessing the uniform of the Grey Wardens, Joran has never worn it since leaving Weisshaupt. His plate armor is plain and serviceable, his shield without heraldry. His sword grip is wrapped tightly in sweat darkened suede, the detailing hidden beneath marking it as Templar issue. He doesn't let his blade out of his sight and can become hostile very quickly if someone else touches it.

When out of armor he favors leather jerkins over plain white shirts and dark breeches and boots. He has a few nice things he will only wear if the occasion calls for it. His wide belt contains the usual pouches for potions and coin as well as a hidden sheath for a dagger.

He has a watchful look about him, and it's rare that he relaxes. He may be out of the Anderfels. The land isn't out of him with all that entails. His movements are very fluid, the casual sort of grace that only comes from dedicated, rigorous training. His demeanor is closed until he feels he knows someone. With better familiarity comes more expressiveness and rare laughter.

His voice is a little strange, scratchy and soft-spoken. Despite working hard on his Fereldan, he still has a very obvious Anders accent and is much slower with the foreign tongue than his native language. He often finds himself searching for words and will sometimes get them spectacularly wrong, particularly if the concept is a complex one not likely to come up in everyday conversation.

Personality:
Practicality is one of Joran's most obvious and overriding traits. It permeates almost everything he does and is as important of a consideration for him as the questions of whether a course of action is moral or necessary. He prefers efficiency over mere expedience and is more interested in results than specific methods. He is more likely to ask another what he has done than how he did it. In this he can be adaptable, for he's not one to cling blindly to a plan or method that isn't working. He's not nearly as good at using this adaptability when it comes to interpersonal skills.

He's a decent tactician without the corresponding qualities of leadership that would have sent him up through the ranks in his position as a Templar. He has no patience in explaining things to others, in Anders or Fereldan, with one of his most hated questions being, "Why?" He's more likely to snap, "Because it will work!" than to take the time to explain what to him seems obvious. No amount of grooming from his superiors who thought he might have potential or negative reactions from his peers have shaken him from this particular tendency. On the flip side, if he sees merit in another's proposal, he doesn't need swaying to follow instructions, only becoming recalcitrant when he spots obvious flaws or a moral conflict.

He has a very strong work/personal divide. When he is on task, he doesn't want distractions, whether that task is handling paperwork or hunting Darkspawn. It has caused many who have worked with him in the past to see him as cold or lacking in personality. When he isn't working or has leave, he doesn't want to talk about duty or address topics relating to it. It's during those times that he reveals more of his inner self. Those few who haven't taken his on duty persona personally have discovered he has a dry wit, a skill in listening, and a capacity for a gruff sort of compassion more in line with offering a hand up than a hand out.

His friendship isn't particularly difficult to earn; however, it's largely transitory. He has lost enough people in his life to Darkspawn depredations, disease, and poverty that he almost never deeply attaches. He views the people moving through his life much like weather, enjoying (or disliking) them while they're there and not giving them much thought when they've moved on. It doesn't mean he doesn't feel or even that he can't feel deeply. He does and he has. It means he doesn't cling to it or try to prolong it beyond whatever lifespan the relationship seems it will have. He is graceful at letting go.

He would never describe this as a product of early trauma or think of it in such terms. It's just one more way of taking a practical approach to an often difficult life, one he had to learn young to function.

He's the sort who could reconnect with another years or even decades down the line and pick up seemingly where they left off with no sense of recrimination for their staying away or out of touch. He gets genuinely confused when others display anger at him over not writing or making other efforts to hold onto something he never saw as permanent. It's hard for him to fathom being that important to others, not out of a lack of self-worth but out of lack of effort to try to be.

He takes this same approach to death, something which has earned him no favor among those who perceive his seeming unconcern as callousness and disregard for the grief of others. He grieves close hits, but only in private and usually not for an extended period of time. The death of his father was a notable exception to this and was the catalyst for much strife and suffering.

A second cornerstone trait that permeates most of who he is and what motivates him is his faith. Among most circles, Joran would be considered a heretic because he has discarded the bulk of the teachings of the Chantry to seek a more meaningful personal relationship with the Maker. He didn't come to this decision lightly or without cause. The reasoning behind it will be covered in more detail in the history section. It is not the reason he is no longer a Templar in anything but ability and training but one of the results of this development.

His personal faith is something he keeps largely to himself. To outward appearances, he's no different from any devout Andrastian. He'll pray before meals or battles, sometimes attend Chantry services for refreshers on the Chant of Light and the fellowship, and observe the holy days in appropriate ways. However, he has a deep seated belief that the Chantry itself is corrupt, its leaders manipulative not only of their congregations but their Templars, and that the change sweeping across much of Thedas like wildfire regarding the mages is a direct result of centuries of Chantry abuses.

He is not "pro-mage". He believes there should be some method of control and a buffer between mages and the general populace, lest the rest of Thedas become like the corrupt to the core Imperium. He is, on the other hand, completely supportive of Templars becoming an autonomous force outside of Chantry control and away from the evils and ravages of lyrium addiction. Only his status as Warden and the prohibition against involving themselves in local political issues prevents him from acting in direct, public support of that cause. Indirectly, he does whatever he can in small ways.

His former life as a Templar is one of his most closely guarded secrets to all but the First Warden who accepted him into the ranks. He keeps this secret in large part because of his utterly hellish experiences in trying to recover from his addiction. It's the closest he has ever come to dying, which says much when one sees his patchwork of scars, and it was a matter of years--not weeks or months--before he felt truly free of its physical influence. To this day he hungers for it and must fight the temptation.

He treats known mages with caution and prefers to maintain his distance from them personally. If he finds himself working alongside them in an official capacity, he treats them no differently than any other co-worker, with complete professionalism and lack of sentiment. It's after the mission is over that his bias can show. He is utterly unapologetic for this stance and can be very rude if confronted on it too aggressively.

He has less race bias than many. He wasn't in contact with any elves in Hossberg when growing up, as his family was too poor to put him in proximity with house servants and the like. When he became a Templar, he watched over the elven mages with the same mistrust as their human counterparts, no more, no less. It wasn't until he became a Warden that he worked closely with any outside of that context. He found himself respecting his fellow elf Wardens more often than not because they seemed to take nothing for granted and worked twice as hard as most of their peers. He was quick to reward that effort with support and loyalty when it was put toward decent goals.

Likewise, he respects what he sees as an almost innate sense of practicality in dwarves and finds himself curious about their culture. What he has learned of the caste system he finds abhorrent, largely due to his own struggles with poverty. He has never been around enough Qunari to form an opinion of them beyond general mistrust of their goals. As long as they pit most of their efforts against the Imperium and leave the rest of Thedas alone, he has no quarrel with them as a people.

On the matter of loyalty, he can seem odd and sometimes frustrating. He is more loyal to ideals than to people. If someone is acting in a way that he perceives as honorable or for the good of society, they will have his loyalty and support. The moment they fail in that metric or harm society in the name of personal sentiment or selfish goals, his support evaporates. Depending upon the degree that he perceives the action harmful he can go from open disapproval to all out opposition. If they seem to learn from their mistakes or genuinely repent, he'll let the lapse go. However, he's not blindly trusting. He won't forgive repeated lapses into harmful behavior or take a live and let live approach. He will attempt to neutralize their threat in the most efficient way possible, which doesn't always coincide with what is legal.

Like many Anders, he has a deep, culturally ingrained resentment and mistrust of the Tevinter Imperium and by extension its citizens. It's not impossible for one of them to overcome this, but it would take more for one of them to break past his distance than most, and he would likely view a concerted effort to do so with suspicion.

His morality has been shaped in part by his father's devotion to Andraste and the deep poverty and dangers he faced growing up on the streets of Hossberg. He is far less interested in what is legal than what is right, for the laws of man often benefit only some men, those with possessions and power, and leave the rest to scrape by as they can. He has a soft spot for underdogs unless he perceives they put themselves in that position by stupidity or carelessness, admires tenacity and determination, and isn't tolerant of hearing, "I can't," when too often he thinks people substitute that phrase for, "I won't".

He isn't quick to take the lives of humans, elves, dwarves, or Qunari, but if he has decided the action is necessary, he's a brutal, efficient killer. He prides himself on making a clean kill when he can. As for Darkspawn, he will never hesitate, and he has frequently taken them on when he was outnumbered and unarmored. Long ago his fear of them evaporated into hatred.

He views his becoming a Grey Warden as a natural extension of a purpose he had already set himself toward, to do whatever he could to rid the world of Darkspawn's numbers, no matter how daunting the task. The zeal with which he used to perform his duties as a Templar has found equal use in his life as a Warden. It's one reason that when he discovered he was being sent to Ferelden he never complained. He knows they were ravaged by the most recent Blight and that strange things have been happening since then in regard to Darkspawn. If he can best be of use there, then he believes that is where he ought to be.

In temperament he can run hot to cold and back again fairly quickly. His anger is like a storm, violent at times, almost always loud, but once it has passed it's gone. He doesn't hold personal grudges as a rule and has a hard time trusting people who do for all but the gravest of offenses. He's not the type to sit and seethe. If he has a beef, he airs it. He respects people who do the same.

When he's comfortable enough for levity, he throws himself into the moment with similar enthusiasm. However, he has no appreciation or tolerance for pranks, his response to such things almost always disproportionately harsh. In his life experiences, the wrong pranks at the wrong time can and do get people killed.

Underneath the surface changeability, he is unbelievably tenacious. He doesn't give up or quit. He is very much of the motto that as long as there's breath, there's hope. He takes nothing for granted and is genuinely grateful even for the little things.

History:
Joran doesn't know his exact birthday or even his exact age. He believes he's anywhere from 35-38 and doesn't think it particularly matters. He knows he was born in the spring because this is what his father told him and that it was a good thing because he was a scrawny, sickly baby no one expected to make past his first winter. It was a mild summer and autumn in the Anderfels that year, mild by their harsh standards. It allowed him enough time to toughen and fatten up a little for the cold winter that followed.

He had two older brothers, Jarl and Kole, both of whom died before he was old enough to remember them. Jarl was taken by darkspawn along with several other children he was playing with at the time. Kole ate something too far gone and died in wasting agony because the family was too poor to afford any sort of treatment for him. Joran wasn't told of this until he was old enough to understand death, which in the Anderfels was younger than in most places.

He also had three younger sisters, all of whom he remembers and only one of whom survived to adulthood with him. The first was a thin little creature, much as he had been, with the misfortune of coming in late autumn. She didn't make it past first snowfall. Her name was Sigrun. The second came during summer with a lusty wail and a fighter's spirit. Her name is Lovisa, Vis for short, and although she and Joran fought constantly growing up, they also invariably had each other's backs and were terribly formidable when united against a common foe, whether it was a street rival or Darkspawn. To this day he loves her fiercely, and she's one of the few people in his life he has ever allowed himself to miss once they were separated by circumstances and life decisions. He knows she is married with children of her own and hopes she has found continued happiness.

His last sister was never named. She came stillborn and took his mother Gerda with her when he was around eight and Vis around five. Their already difficult life became much harder. His father Noak relied heavily on Joran to take care of Vis when he had to leave them to try to find food or the odd job here and there that kept them from utter destitution. He didn't have the time or the luxury to grieve her properly. He instead had to do his best to be her for his little sister, a task he took on with a strong will despite not having the first idea how to do it.

It was a time of constant, gnawing hunger, moving from place to place as the dangerous tenements in which they took shelter crumbled around them or burned in frequent fires, and unrelenting uncertainty. Darkspawn could appear anywhere at any time, coming straight from the ground to maraud, attack, and kidnap, only to leave suddenly with chaos in their wake. They were the very real monsters used to threaten children into behaving, being eternally wary, not wandering where their parents couldn't find them, not behaving in a way that could call undue attention. Joran and Vis both took these lessons to heart. They had seen too many other children taken or cut down not to.

Friendships among the street children of the capitol were fleeting things, constantly shifting alliances driven by whether resources at any given time were relatively plentiful or scarce. One's very best friend today could become a bitter rival over something as fortuitous as a freshly dead dog. Vis turned out to be the better of the two at navigating these alliances, more charming and facile of speech than Joran. She preferred to talk their way out of a conflict than take the hard line, and it's likely she spared her brother far more injuries than he ever realized. However, when the time for words was over, she was every bit as tenacious and vicious as he. They were never leaders of any of the fluid factions, but they were respected enough not to be targeted by bullies very often.

The one positive constant during this time was the Chantry. No matter how badly things went or how little they had, Noak took his children to services without fail. Joran remembers these times fondly. Even before he fully understood the words, the beautiful singing of the Chant of Light lifted him out of a world of misery and desperation and allowed his soul to soar. The idea that somewhere beyond the world of suffering lay a sublime being and a beautiful land where all could possibly reunite at the end of their struggles kept him from the despair many of his peers succumbed to before ever growing peach fuzz on their jaws.

It had the opposite effect on Vis. She frequently bitterly denounced this all powerful Maker who made them flawed and then turned His back on them for it. She spoke similarly of the first of the Maker's children to the point that it frightened him at times. If she had been overheard advocating for demons, there was a real possibility the Templars could have come for her despite the fact she wasn't a mage. Some of the worst arguments the two of them had revolved around this issue. Ironically, it was Vis' skepticism and ability to argue her points eloquently that began to tip Joran toward considering there could be more for him in life than scraping by on the streets and desperately trying to keep a family alive the way his father had. He began to wonder if the Maker had a plan for him.

It was also during this time that he began to develop his views on laws and judgment. The first time his father was jailed for petty theft that he could recall was when his mother was still alive. He remembers going with her to the holding cell because he was too young to be left alone, the utter squalor of the place, the stench, the despair. Most of the prisoners were exactly like Noak, doing what they had to do in order to prevent their families from starving. The charity programs run by the Chantry were inadequate, no matter how they preached against theft. The shame in his father's eyes when their gazes met burns him to this day. That such a good, decent, protective man should ever have felt shame for actions taken in desperation and necessity struck him as the very height of unfairness and hypocrisy in a system that claimed all were equal in the Maker's eyes yet treated them very differently depending upon station.

It was the first of many arrests Noak suffered over the years, arrests and public beatings or humiliations. He took them with a stoic sort of endurance that Joran emulated from an early age. He developed a reputation for being tough. No one could make him cry or cry out in pain or fear. They didn't realize that he had one of the most powerful motivations known, the adoration bordering on worship of a son for his father.

He and Vis weren't idle in providing for their small family unit. They ran several beggar scams at the outskirts of the Market District when they weren't outright scrounging. Vis developed the ability to cross her eyes for extended periods of time, and Joran was thin and flexible enough to bind a leg up in his breeches to hobble with a stick. Sometimes it worked. Sometimes it didn't. They learned to take care in how often they hit any particular street corner lest people recall them and see Joran with both legs or Vis clearly not blind. They both enjoyed these games and would entertain one another later play acting the often cloying compassion directed their way with a few bits to assuage the conscience of the passing shoppers. Joran never thought much of such charity when he knew what they had in their fat coin pouches could feed his entire family for well over a month.

Neither of them ever caught the hang of pick pocketing. Their few disastrous attempts inevitably ended with their being chased down by their angry older targets and beaten mercilessly. They were slightly more successful at snatch and grabs until Noak learned of what they were doing and gave them worse beatings than any stranger had ever dared. It was one of the few times he truly hurt his children and ended with the only time Joran had ever seen him cry. It distressed Joran so much he became nauseated and vowed he would never do anything to upset the man that much again. Seeing that raw emotion hurt far worse than his fists, and the hurt from it lingered longer than the cuts and bruises.

Life wasn't all doom and gloom. Like most children, he and Vis were emotionally resilient and adept at finding or making games out of the simplest of things. They had numerous pets which consisted mostly of trundle beetles or spiders they managed to coax into making a home in partially crushed boxes where they could feed them flies. They would pit their beetles against each other in shoving contests with bragging rights on the line, just one more outlet for their competitiveness. They gravitated toward other children most like themselves, independent, not interested in bullying the weaker or going out of their way to defend them, practical, and always up for a competition. It was a good way to earn little odds and ends, thimbles and needles, thread, a dented cook pot, and once a fancy hat that was only just a little mud stained. They sold that for enough to buy a hunk of fatback.

Aside from his uncertain birth, Joran's second brush with death came when he was around ten. He, Vis, and several other children were gathered in the Market Square for a trundle beetle tournament with high stakes on the line. They were so absorbed in the action in the circular beetle arena that the first screams of the adults from across the square didn't register.

By the time they did, several Hurlocks and Genlocks had spread out among the crowd. Wardens and Templars both leaped into action with some of the heartier and better armed citizens also wading into the fray. In the pandemonium and chaos, Joran became separated from Vis. Despite the yells from adults telling him to go, to run, he remained, frantically searching among the flying skirts and pounding legs and screaming her name.

He has no memory of initial pain, instead the sensation of hard impact, first in his shoulder, and then in the opposite hip. He recalls falling, looking to the side, and seeing a wicked black shaft protruding just beneath his armpit. He wanted to get up, but his leg beneath the second shot wouldn't move at all. He saw a spreading crimson stain growing over his breeches and tattered shirt and felt hot wetness pooling beneath him. Suddenly Vis was there, screaming, and then a flash of a Templar skirt, bright armor and strong arms scooping him up as though he weighed nothing at all. Blackness descended.

It was the first time in his life he had ever been bedridden, and he hated every moment of it. The pain was indescribable at first. It was his whole world, sharp, throbbing agony that rolled through him like an inexorable tide, radiating from his shoulder and his hip both. Chantry sisters tended him with draughts meant to help him sleep. They confided that they wished they could do more, but it was by the grace of charity alone he was there in the first place. There would be no healing potions for a street urchin.

Fevers wracked him, his body fighting a raging infection not from the arrows themselves but his clothing that had been forced into his body from the impact. He has little memory of that phase of his recovery, only that he sometimes saw Vis' drawn, worried face near his bedside and sometimes a more confident look from his father always with the same message. "You're strong, boy. You can fight this. You will fight this." Because his father said it, he believed it to be so. It wasn't until much later that he realized how lucky he was not to contract the taint as many people did who initially survived a Darkspawn attack.

He chafed at the slow recovery and the loss of strength he could feel ravaging him the longer he was forced to stay abed. It was by his own insistence that he was up and about well before the sisters thought it was wise. It was nearly a year before he could walk without a limp and had the full use of his dominant arm again. The Templar who had saved him, a quiet man known only as Ser Digby, occasionally came to check on his progress even after he left the charity ward of the hospital. He was flattered by the attention and shy of it at the same time. He had never gained the notice of anyone important before, and he thought getting shot by a Genlock was a stupid reason to have it.

His scars gave him a certain appeal and notoriety among his peers. All of the street kids bore scars of some kind, inflicted by drunken relatives, cruel strangers, each other, stray dogs. Of all of them he was the only one to have survived a Darkspawn attack and been struck by a real weapon. He wasn't above using the fact to get what he wanted and had the potential to become a completely obnoxious braggart on a more permanent basis were it not for Vis' losing patience and giving him a public beat down. At the time he resented her hotly for it. Much later in their lives, he surprised her by thanking her for it, realizing that she saved him from a severe character flaw before it could become ingrained.

The strain on his relationship with his sister led him to begin to confide more in Ser Digby on the occasions the Templar paid a visit every month or so. In time he stopped feeling like a charity case for the man, for the first time in his life being afforded the opportunity to engage in conversations that stretched his horizons. Like the rest of his friends, he was completely illiterate and had only the most basic comprehension of counting, enough not to get cheated on the very few occasions he had something he could buy or sell.

He did, however, have a decent skill at memorization and surprised the Templar one afternoon by accurately singing to him a full verse from the Chant of Light. Once he revealed his faith, it opened yet more avenues of conversation that always left him feeling enriched when the man left and wanting more. The vague sense that he could have purpose in life beyond eking out a survival began to solidify into something more focused. Many Templars were Chantry orphans who started life with less than he had. If they could find a place and earn honor, why couldn't he?

It wasn't hard to persuade the man to start teaching him the basics of armed combat given the circumstances under which they had met. The Templar allowed him nothing more than a waster and a wooden shield almost too heavy for him to hold at first. He seemed to believe that Joran would grow out of the notion once he realized how difficult it was. The harder his challenges, the more effort the boy put into overcoming them. He pulled his left pectoral muscle many times at the injury site over the course of several months until it finally strengthened and held.

By the time he was thirteen, Ser Digby had shifted from an attitude of humoring him to genuine belief that if he applied himself, he had a chance of making it as a recruit. The man spoke at length to Noak of the possibility. Joran thought his father would burst with pride. It was one of the happiest moments of his life.

The divide between him and Vis grew. She made no bones about her contempt for his beliefs or the fact that he intended to pursue them to that length. What had once been friendly competitiveness and bickering between the two took on elements of rancor and malice. They knew each other best and knew exactly how to go for the jugular. Noak's admonishments only ensured that they didn't have the worst of their fights in his earshot.

In an effort to give Joran a fighting chance, the knight began to bring food to both of the Backstrom children. Vis refused her portions outright and took to leaving the tenement whenever the Templar was there. Noak, also, was too proud to accept the charity without ever discouraging Joran from doing the same. He explained to him that he was reaching a critical time in his growth, and if he didn't have enough food to eat now, he might never be large enough or strong enough for the rigors of Templar life.

The changes came rapidly and were dramatic. He hit such intense growth spurts that he was ravenous all the time, and his joints and muscles ached enough to disrupt his sleep. When he was fourteen, he grew a little over four inches that year and for the first time showed signs of filling out. He progressed well in his unofficial training not because he was exceptionally skilled but because he practiced constantly, found ways to train his body and challenge his discipline constantly whether actually working with his waster and shield or not.

Becoming a Templar would change so many things. In addition to serving the Maker and feeling closer to His grace, he could eventually provide for his father and sister. A recruit's salary wasn't enough to take them out of the tenements, but a knight's salary would be. He could finally repay the man he loved more than life itself for all the times he suffered in prison or went without just so he and Vis could live to see another day. He wanted it more than anything he had ever wanted in his life, and he discovered his will could be a formidable thing indeed.

He was far less thrilled with Ser Digby's insistence that he start to learn to read and write. It came much harder to him than anything physical, and he felt as though it took away time that he could be improving himself in more important ways. He didn't want to "put on airs" as he thought it. He knew that some Templars were illiterate and didn't understand why he couldn't be one of them. It was only when the man threatened to stop training him altogether that he stopped digging in his heels on this issue and reluctantly did as he was told. To this day his handwriting is awkward and careless, although he has learned the value of a good book, particularly on the topics of history, philosophy, and tactics. He has never had patience for fiction or poetry.

Deciding when he should apply to the recruit program was a little problematic given no one knew exactly how old he was. Ser Digby went through the trouble of persuading the Knight-Captain that Joran was physically rigorous enough and mature enough to give it a go. If he wasn't exactly fifteen or was a couple of years older than that, did it really matter?

He was so nervous the night before the testing he threw up several times, and then he feared his night of nausea would weaken him enough that he wouldn't pass. In a rare moment of truce in the bickering, Vis calmed him at last by stroking his hair, singing to him the way their mother used to, and then holding him when he fell into exhausted sleep.

In the end, he wasn't the best in his testing group by any stretch, but he didn't finish anywhere near the cut off point. He made a decent enough showing for himself that Ser Digby told him he was proud of him and that he had honored and rewarded his faith in him, words he will always hold dear to heart.

The next few years seemed to pass in something of a blur. He was kept so busy learning new skills and disciplines that he never had much time to see Vis or his father. The prolonged absences cooled her anger with him, and in time they were back to the closeness they had shared before their divide. He always had news to share with her, and she with him. He was always astounded at the changes he saw in her, and likewise she with him. Noak looked alarmingly older, and his health had begun to fail.

His education on the pitfalls and dangers of magic, the Fade, Chantry history and doctrine, the uses of lyrium, the power he could tap through its consumption, defensive tactics, teamwork and cooperation, battle tactics and methods, the care and maintenance of armor and weapons, all of it combined to hone him into a good, solid Templar. He frustrated his superiors with his stubbornness and persistent bluntness with peers and was told more times than he could count that he could rise in the ranks if he would just take the criticisms to heart.

He had no interest in being a leader if it meant making compromises he found unacceptable. He, in turn, was frustrated that men and women who supposedly respected conviction and faith criticized him for those very qualities when they ran counter to their own desires. Within two years of attaining his knighthood, he had his father and Vis in a small home in the Merchant District. Less than a year after that, Noak died with both of his children at his sickbed. Joran took the loss harder than anything else in his life before or since. It led to reckless behavior, sanctions and black marks against him in his career, the beginnings of his lyrium addiction, and his third brush with death.

At first he seemed to continue on as he always had, refusing to take the week leave offered and only taking enough time to help arrange and attend the small funeral with a bare handful of mourners. Neither he nor Vis wept, the two of them shoulder to shoulder and united in their front. She broke down with him in private, and it was the only time in his adult life that he allowed himself the same. His father's death left a hole in his world he couldn't begin to fathom how to fill.

Throwing himself into duty did nothing. If he had been distant before, he was stone now, unresponsive to any social overtures and outwardly indifferent to the advice Ser Digby and others tried to offer him, to take some time. To admit he was human. To stop pushing so hard, that he was alienating himself, and it was a foolish move in a political environment like a Circle of Magi. It wasn't that he didn't want to hear them. He didn't know how to do what they were asking. He was afraid that if he slowed down, he would stop and never want to move again. For the first time the words of the Chant were cold comfort. He didn't want some happy reunion with his father years down the line. He wanted him still here with him now.

Irrationally, he blamed himself for not having made something of himself earlier. If he had been able to help him sooner, he'd have been stronger. His health wouldn't have failed. He and Vis wouldn't now be truly alone in the world. He worried for his sister alone in the house. If she was having problems, she never told him. She was every bit as stubborn as he when it came to such things.

He began to experience insomnia. The sleeplessness made him sloppy and touchy. He took his frustration out on his peers first and then took it a step further, intimidating and verbally abusing the mages. It made him feel sick inside, and at the same time it helped. It gave him a place to put all of the feelings that he couldn't quell. He looks back on this time in his life with a sense of inner shame and is sometimes amazed it never went any further. His mentor Ser Digby was the one to bring his behavior to the attention of his direct superior.

He was temporarily removed from all contact with the mages and assigned to menial tasks with the recruits, docked a month's worth of pay, and had the behavior included in his permanent file. Rather than taking it all as a wake up call to do what it took to get his head back on straight, he retreated further into resentment and anger. It was months before he spoke to Ser Digby at all and much longer after that before he could bring himself to be civil.

He started to frequent a low tavern on the outskirts of the slum where he grew up. Up to that point, he had never drunk alcohol. When he was a child, it was inaccessible due to cost, and too many of his friends were beaten and even sometimes killed because their older relatives abused it. That seemed reason enough to stay away. As a recruit it was forbidden to him to carouse. He didn't have any close friends to tempt him to such things and never gave it much thought.

Now there was nothing to stop him. He discovered that a few of his comrades also frequented the place. They knew of his reputation as a hot head and had heard the rumors of what he had done to the mages. Rather than shunning him, they welcomed him into their circle. They were of the opinion that the Chantry was far too easy on mages. In his normal state of mind they were exactly the sorts of people he would avoid. In the depths of his grief and isolation, anyone willing to accept him as he was without lecturing him that he needed to change seemed like a good companion. He fell in with them and never questioned whether it was wise.

After a few months, the unofficial leader of the group, Ser Nils, invited Joran into a back room he and a few of his closest friends had hired for the evening. He had no idea what he would find when he arrived. He wasn't expecting what they had, black market lyrium. His heart started to race. Lyrium was one of the only things in his life at that time that still made him feel good. He didn't have to think twice about their offer and cemented his place in Nils' inner circle.

Nils seemed like everything Joran felt he wasn't, charismatic, silver-tongued, able to fit in easily both with his own group and the highers-up who had no idea what he was truly like. Most importantly, Nils never made him feel his lacking. He had the gift of making his friends feel as though no one but them existed when he was in their company. Joran hadn't realized it, but that was exactly the sort of feeling he needed. In a small, pale way it was like having his father still with him. He ignored the voice in the back of his head that told him Nils was the type of man Noak Backstrom despised to the core of his being. No matter how charming or charismatic he was, underneath it he was a bully quick to turn on anyone who fell out of his favor.

For five years Nils and Joran were as thick as kin, both of them spiraling deeper into lyrium addiction and taking increasingly desperate risks to obtain more. Others in the group came and went, some through falling into disfavor, some through fear, some realizing they had a problem and trying to opt out. Joran became Nils' heavy, putting the fear of the Maker in any who dared to turn on them first. There was something about the way he delivered threats that people believed. Nils liked to tell him that no one terrified him more and how glad he was to have him on his side.

Then a lyrium deal went bad. Three dead smugglers and one enraged Coterie leader later, it was rumored at the circle that heads were going to roll. Inexplicably, Nils stopped talking to Joran, either in public or private. Already suffering symptoms of paranoia from the lyrium, Joran was sure his friend was trying to sell him out.

It didn't look good. Templar after Templar came forward, people formerly in their group, and pointed at Joran as the ring leader, the one always making threats, the one conspiring to keep everyone silent. It was only then that he realized just how thoroughly he had been used.

He was under unofficial arrest while the investigation was ongoing, unable to come and go as he pleased but not restricted to his quarters. He may as well have been. None of his fellow Templars would even look at him, much less speak to him. They went out of their way to switch seats in the mess hall when he came to eat. As unpleasant as that was, the symptoms his body was beginning to experience were much worse.

Late on the evening before he would finally be allowed to speak for himself, he made his way down to the chapel, the first time he had darkened the door on his own in nearly three years. He thought the prayer might be slow to come to his lips, but it flowed from him as readily as though he had been reciting it every night. He didn't feel precisely peaceful, but he began to feel a little better.

He never saw his assailant until it was too late. One moment he was kneeling at prayer. The next it seemed his entire world exploded in a loud, sickening thock and crunch, pain and pressure. The pain was short lived, his body nearly immediately going into deep shock. He couldn't see precisely what had been done to him, only that there was more blood running down his front and back than he had thought possible for him to lose. He fell forward against the railing and heard the sound of a blade slicing through the air right above his head. He mustered the focus to turn partially and stab the robed figure, likely a man, although he couldn't be positive.

The figure dropped an ax covered in his blood and fell hard to the floor in a black heap. Joran had just enough strength left in him to let out a loud bellow calling for help before his vision narrowed down to a small tunnel and blackness engulfed his awareness.

He awoke in the circle infirmary with no one but Ser Digby sitting at his side. His mouth was too dry to speak. The older man carefully gave him water in small sips until he indicated he had enough. He asked what happened and discovered more than he really wanted to hear. Another Templar, Ser Arin, had taken it upon himself to try to assassinate him, fearing that his testimony might be damning enough to bring Nils down with him. Arin had quickly cracked under interrogation and admitted he and Nils were secret lovers for years. No one knew if Nils had put him up to the attempt or if he had acted on his own. That was one thing he wouldn't reveal. The attempt in and of itself was damning enough of Nils to lift the larger cloud of suspicion over Joran's head that he started all of this but not to absolve him of abusing black market lyrium. At best he was looking at an assignment to a remote, unimportant outpost, at worst prison time and expulsion from the order.

He accepted the news with more calm than his old mentor seemed to expect and moved on to the next point. What had been done to him, and why was he still in pain? He wouldn't have been surprised if the senior healer had deliberately botched the job with the reputation he had earned among the mages. Instead it was just that the damage to his collarbone was so complete that the most skilled application of magic they had wasn't enough fully to reshape it properly. It was a senior enchanter who had rushed to his aid and finished neutralizing Ser Arin until someone else could get there.

Joran felt deeply ashamed of his behavior, assessing himself more clearly than he had in years. He didn't like what he saw and expressed to Ser Digby that he wanted to leave the order. He would serve the prison term if it was handed down. Other than that, he would disappear back into obscurity. He didn't feel he deserved to wear the armor any longer. True to form, he would hear no advice to the contrary. Once he had convinced the man he was serious, he was granted a short audience with the Knight-Commander.

In the end, only thanks to the impassioned efforts of Ser Digby, Joran was spared a prison sentence. He was forced to resign publicly, the ravages of his lyrium withdrawals in full view of his former comrades, and was told that if he tried to contact any of his former conspirators, the waived prison sentence would be carried out.

He felt that the best thing he could give to his true friend Ser Digby was his absence. Once he left the circle, he headed back to an old haunt in the slums, away from where he had lived with his father and sister when the Templar had come into his life. He took only his small collection of personal items and his sword with him.

He was naive to think Vis would stand for her brother's simply disappearing. He didn't blend as well in the surroundings as he once had. He looked and acted like a warrior now, and the ravages of lyrium withdrawal were beginning to take their toll. Within a week, she found him and insisted that he come stay with her and her husband, a blacksmith who specialized in armor. When Vis set her mind to something, she was even harder to sway than Joran.

Sick, exhausted, and realizing he had nowhere else to go, he reluctantly conceded. He worried that fretting for him would harm her pregnancy, knowing that she had miscarried once before two years prior. And where had he been then? Spending all of his free time chasing lyrium and drinking with Nils. The very thought of it disgusted him. He had never before been prone to self-loathing, but it settled in thickly around him. He did the best he could just to stay out of the couple's way at first, until the mental deterioration of the withdrawals had him raving and completely out of his head.

He has only fragmented memories of this time, having to go mostly by what Vis and her husband Boaz have told him. Fearing for his wife's safety, Boaz fashioned a heavy padlock and bars and imprisoned Joran in the spare room. He took over responsibility for his care, from feeding him to cleaning him, changing the linens when he soaked through them in his night sweats or soiled them in his dementia, and preventing him from swallowing his own tongue when he convulsed. After the violent phase was over, he fell into such deep torpor that Boaz had to put a small, polished metal mirror up to his nose just to be sure he was still breathing.

In desperation Vis had Boaz write to Ser Digby. A few days later a small box was delivered to the residence. It contained vials of the lyrium preparation used by the Templars and precise instructions on how to administer it, and how much, to help Joran's body more slowly taper down, if it wasn't already too late.

His improvement was immediate and marked, but he was furious that Boaz insisted on keeping him locked in the room. He wanted more than they were giving him, believing they were being deliberately cruel in withholding it to punish him for causing them such trouble. The paranoia and disordered thinking were still in full sway. He said terrible things, calling them through the door day and night, pacing, beating futilely on the strong wood and wearing blisters into his hands trying to pry away the bars from the window. Only once did he try directly to attack the stout blacksmith so that he could make a break for it. He thought the man would burst his head against the floor like a melon.

The baby came, a healthy little boy. Vis allowed Joran to see him once she was up and about again and named him Noak. The lyrium supply they had been given finally ran out. Boaz told Joran in no uncertain terms that there would be no more. By this point he had constant shakes like someone with palsy. He didn't know how long it would last, maybe forever. He had heard of such things. He fell into deep depression, believing he had squandered everything he had worked for in his life. He didn't know how much the lyrium was still affecting his mind.

Vis successfully argued that it was time for the lock and bars to come down. They couldn't keep him a prisoner like some criminal. He had the right to make his own choices, and the time had come that he was going to have to start doing that. Boaz laid down just one rule. No dust. If he caught so much as a whiff of suspicion that Joran was back to abusing lyrium, he would no longer be welcome in their home. As much as it obviously hurt her to think about, Vis agreed.

He knew how lucky he was. He knew they had saved his life. He just felt so utterly useless. He couldn't even hold the baby for fear of dropping him. Some days the muscle tremors were bad enough that he needed help feeding himself. He wasn't yet thirty, and he felt like a sick old man. A burden to good people who didn't deserve it. This time when he packed to leave, Vis didn't try to stop him. It was as though she sensed he was never going to find himself again as long as he was propped on her and Boaz. She made him promise to stay in regular touch. Not to try to hide.

(cont' in second post for length)