Make A RolePlayer Account!   Start roleplaying with members like Lathbora Viran!   First Name:   Last Name:   Email:   Password:

Lathbora Viran's Latest Blog Posts  [Subscribe to this Blog]

[View All Blog Posts]

Lathbora Viran's Blurbs

About me: BACKSTORY Life was never easy. Being a half breed amongst the Dalish left her an outcast amongst her kinsmen who treated her more shem than one of the people. It was only for the love of their mother that she wasn't banished at birth. Still, she always participated and worked hard for the betterment of her clan, always eager to prove she was as much one of them as any other member. She learned archery and knife play, having a natural finesse and speed that left the other's dumbfounded as they watched her fly across the terrain or up trees with a seemingly unnatural ease. Despite the odd comment and scrutiny for the curve of her human ears, Shiaya was always happy and full of energy, putting everything she had into supporting her family and their quest to discover the lost history of her people. She has a natural kinship with the creatures she encounters where quick trust is forged between them and they readily become an extension of her family; from the halla to the forest bears. However, she held a distrust of outsiders and of shemlen, that was a consensus amongst her clan. They moved every few weeks, and worked to avoid built up communities. At eighteen she gained the right to be one of the people and received her vallaslin from the clan leader. It was considered a great honour and Shiaya felt great pride to finally be considered rightfully one of the people, a place where she belonged, a family that would accept her as their own. A month later, the clan were attacked as they lingered near an old elven ruin. Human bandits swept through like the blight. They fought back, but were overwhelmed by numbers and were forced to flee their camp. The sounds of torturous screams filled the forest as she ran, her hand latched on to by her mother, willing her retreat when all she wanted to do was charge back in and kill every last one of them. Travelling South, they lived off the land, Shiaya guarding her mother along the way, hoping that they could find another clan that would take them in before more trouble found them. However, the Dalish were impressively elusive and, any they did find wouldn't permit them to join their already full clans, or were plagued with their own issues that it would be safe. Leaving the Becillian Forest, they continued Southwards in the hope another clan lingered within the Wilds. All they found was the Darkspawn. They came from everywhere at once, the earth blackening in their wake, the stench of corruption and taint palpable. Shrill cries and gargles reverberated around the lone duo and Shiaya stood ready to fight, to protect the only family she had left. She couldn't fight a horde. An bolt ripped through her side and flew past, striking her mother, yet, it wasn't one of the 'spawns weapons, but a stray projectile from another group falling to the wrath of the tainted ones. Still, the bolt struck her mother in her stomach and the darkspawn ceased her before she could hit the ground. Shiaya screamed out, rage consuming her and she launched herself into the horde, tears blurring her vision, nimble fingers gripping her blades for all they were worth. The fight pushed her further back into the temple, until the retreating dance was lost beneath crumbling stone and the floor collapsed. The old elven ruin saved her life. There was little time for remorse. Ferelden steadily became overrun by the tainted ones and Shiaya was forced to flee and survive. There was no time to mourn. This time, she needed to flee back up north, the south rapidly overrun and the remnants of the fallen wandered miserably towards the major cities. Scores of people like her, who had lost everything, their entire lives, loved ones, belongings, hope... all sobbing or numb from the shock, scared and desperate to escape the blight that was ravishing their lands, only to have to face bandits and those who would take advantage of the weak and suffering. Denerim was a welcomed sight, but the horde was close behind, the city rapidly becoming overrun with refugees desperately seeking safety behind the aged walls that had not failed the city yet. The fight was far from over. The death toll was horrific, bodies lay strewn across the city in mangled positions, eyes cold and vacant, the look of horror etched upon their features that showed the brutal end endured. Hope came from a small group lead by grey wardens, and the finale was fought. Shiaya struggled, fighting against the stragglers to help the fleeing city people while fires blazed and stone crumbled around them. A sight of horrors accumulated by the sight of a dragon flying overhead. The fall of the massive beast marked the end of the blight and the people cheered as the remaining darkspawn fled. Denerim had survived. Ferelden had survived. With the blight finally over, it was time for the populace to collectively recoil over what they had just suffered. While walls were rebuilt, the people wept and grieved for what had been lost. Poverty and crime soared, no where was safe, not the Bannorns and, most certainly, not the cities. It was as if an invisible line was drawn where you were either the victim or part of the problem. Shiaya was no victim. Her skill set learned with the Dalish made her a natural at thievery. It begun by stealing what she needed to survive then progressed in taking from the more fortunate to help those with nothing. It was easy to pilfer what was needed and wouldn't be missed, and, before she knew it, she was aiming for bigger rewards, but so to gaining more attention from other's who operated the area. Instead of threatening her, however, they decided to try her out on some jobs. If she got caught then it was no massive loss to them, and Shiaya felt that old feeling of needing the approval and sense of belonging stir within her. She went from petite thief to cat burglar. Noble homes started reporting things going missing, yet no evidence suggested foul play. The guard investigated, but, of course, couldn't make sense of it. Denerim was assaulted by a crime wave that targetted the wealthy, nobility with too much to begin with, all now rushing to the new king demanding recompense and for someone's head on the chopping block – even his if their surplus wealth wasn't protected. Then the mother of all jobs came in – break into Denerim castle to steal a rare statuette gifted to the King by some Orlesian Baroness. It was said to be worth an absolute fortune. One more heist and she could have enough to help her people – if she could find a clan that would have her. The strike came with the changing of the guard, the darkly clad figure nimbly hoping up along the crevices of imperfections that made the towering wall like a ladder for one quick and light enough to navigate the vertical terrain that granted her access to an upper window and a safe route to where the statuette was being stored. The plan had been scrutinized, some of the staff paid off to make it all possible, it was supposed to be flawless, however, it seemed that someone else skulked the candle lit halls and it was no thief. Shiaya was none the wiser until she neared the large hall where the King could be heard, either giving speeches, or trying to figure out what his servants were doing, given the amount of distractions that were needed to help a thief make it through an entire castle. It was mere happenstance that she glanced up as the glint of light caught the sharpened edge of a blade, the weapon unsheathed and pulled close to the chest of the other who was garbed as a serving girl, elven, her gaze focused with the intent of death and set solely upon the King that she moved closer to, the weapon hidden behind a tray that would allow her close to the male without raising suspicion. Shiaya watched silently from her perch, moving quickly, weaving between the columns until the distance was lost and she was now in danger of being spotted by the guard or the king himself. The half elf knew she shouldn't risk her life for a shem, even a royal one. Where would it get her? Locked up and executed, likely placed in league with the assassin closing within feet of the Ferelden king. Her bow was pulled free from her back, an arrow hooked and she took aim. A soft exhale of breath emerged as the assassin pulled free her blade and cried out as she moved in for the death strike. The arrow flew, skimming past distasteful décor and idle guardsmen who were too slow to save their king, before hitting its mark in the right shoulder to make the killer stumble and fall away from the king, but alive so that, hopefully, focus would be upon the one with the knife and not the one hidden with the bow. The attack immediately caused an uproar within the large hall and the deafening sound of armour clanking reverberated throughout as the rush of guards filled in a belated urgency to protect the king and, before she could retreat, Shiaya was surrounded in a flurry of shiny swords all aimed at her torso, like that many could fit into her lithe frame. Her bow dropped to the floor, the assassin was already being grabbed and carted off and now Shiaya could only assume that her fate would be sealed along with the would be killer. • Strengths: Strong willed, independent, quick witted, intelligent, street smart, resourceful, adaptable. Beneath the more cold exterior beats a good heart of compassion and care, a love for animals and even some people, once they've earned that right with her. • Weaknesses: Comes across as cruel and cold, a little snippy and judgemental, insulting initially. She shows herself as someone who doesn't concern herself about other people, selfish and manipulative. She will often push away others and refuse any concern offered in her direction. Slow to trust, but once gained, she warms quickly with those who have earned it. Who I'd like to meet:

More Roleplayers Hope 𝐄𝐌𝐈𝐋𝐈𝐀. Maria Donovan нυитєя ραттєяѕσи Wonder Woman '77 Astrid Deetz remember my name. Ｆｅｒａｌ ᴅʀᴀɢᴏɴ'ꜱ ʙʀᴇᴀᴛʜ. Vince slayer queen. Mr. Vegas 𝐌𝐈𝐀𝐌𝐈'𝐒 𝐁𝐄𝐒𝐓 cowboy shxt. LIGHT REMNANT. 𝕮𝖗𝖔𝖜𝖊 𝕄𝕚𝕣𝕚 painted black. ▐ 𝑴𝑼𝑺𝑬. 𝙎𝙚𝙗𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙞𝙖𝙣. MIDWEST LANDS Lord Admiral Troy ℙ𝕚𝕜𝕒𝕔𝕙𝕦, Daria Rae 🩷 ᴹᵉʳᶜᶦˡᵉˢˢ ᶠᵃᵗʰᵉʳ. {EDLT} ⚔️ Mel. 𝐁𝐀𝐁𝐘 𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐍, †Vampire Prince† Ⱨ₳Ⱡ฿Ɽ₳₦Đ Members pɐǝᗡ ʎɐʇS �Dark Guardian. ᴅᴇᴠɪʟɪsʜ sᴍɪʟᴇ ༻𝑹𝑨𝑹𝑬. Princess Natasha Cassadine fιεrγ rαgε. * sweet rot. Jσ Show More Roleplayers. . . Lathbora Viran's Friends Comments Displaying 1 of 1 Comments (View All | Add Comment) ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴀʟɪꜱᴛᴀɪʀ. May 10th 2024 - 3:24 PM Send Comment | Send Message | Block User MORNING FOR A KING there's a smile--was that so hard? "I know a year feels like a long time, Sire, but when speaking in terms of war and loss, time becomes more fluid.  I still think you should give it time." "I knew you'd say that."  Alistair's voice was clipped; he was in front of a mirror, using a sharp knife to trace up the hairline on his neck.  Everyone from Silas, who he spoke with now, to Eamon, all nagged him to grow his facial hair and have a proper beard.  It was likely due to the many portraits in the castle of Maric's line, and all of their magnificent and kingly beards, but Alistair couldn't stand the itching.   So he was shaving it, again, and he was hearing 'just don't do anything stupid' again...so more or less, it was another day.  Alistair felt emotions well up somewhere in his chest, but he could tell the conversation would go nowhere.  Silas was a wonderful advisor, and as far as a good, strong, supportive Fereldan man went, he was unmatched.  Leiliana sent him to Alistair shortly after his coronation, believing him to be a good fit for the throne's council.  And for a year he had done well in his duties, and become something of a friend to the young king, but Alistair was forced to admit to himself that royalty came with walls.   He could truly trust no one, nor confide in anyone...well, except his dog.  Even Fergus Cousland, who had gifted Amaranthine to the Grey Wardens, was not someone the King felt he could trust with his thoughts. He'd lost a friend, but Fergus had lost a brother, and there was no camraderie there...only loss, even now.  The friendships Alistair forged so mightily and thoroughly during the Blight had all but scattered to the winds...His best and truest friend, Ronan, was dead.  Leiliana drifted away from Fereldan, as did Zevran and the others.  Morrigan had seemingly disappeared entirely, which should have made Alistair pleased, but it instead made him deeply uneasy. While reading, he ran across an account of a heartbroken warrior who used Fade magic to remove his own memories of a tragic event.  The warrior lived a happy, long life without the weight of pain hovering over him.  Alistair had only shown the passages to Silas so far, but Silas's reaction told the King that Eamon and any of the others would be just as upset by the prospect.  Of course they would, because they hadn't been there.  They'd stayed in their fortress while the Grey Wardens died. His hands were shaking as he pulled the knife up, and Alistair nicked his cheekbone.  He scoffed, and rolled his eyes at the mirror image, whose chin was still dripping with soap.   "Wonderful."  He heard the heavy panting of Barkspawn, who padded into the room after Silas left, taking his leave when the King said no more on their tired topic.  To the dog, he quipped, "I'm going to blame you, you know."  He dropped the knife to the cabinet, and turned, pressing his palm into his cheekbone.  The mabari tilted its head and stared in an almost sarcastic way, skin over its beady eyes arching as if affronted.   "They won't believe you! They'll believe me.  Know why?" The dog grumbled, knowing what was next.  With one palm flattened to his new wound, Alistair took a proud stance and carelessly flung the Ferelden crown, lopsided, onto his head.  "BECAUSE I AM THE KING!" When Barkspawn began barking and growling, he dropped the stance, laughing despite his sour mood, and pulled the hated thing off his head.  It was stupid, it was ridiculous, and it was only here in his own private chambers in the presence of the sun and a dog, that he could share how he truly felt about it.  He tossed it onto the bed, knowing how many faints and screams such an act would get him if he did it in public, and reached instead for a piece of cloth to clean his now bloody cheek with.   "You're right," he acknowledged to the dog, who responded with a hearty 'boof'.  "It's a mess, I know.  But I must do it."  That's what he told himself.  And for the moment, it would suffice to get him through the day.  Alistair dropped to his knees, half dressed, to put the mabari in a teasing headlock.   --------------------------- "Isn't this just...frills and flair and pomp? It has been a year, almost--" Eamon sighed at Alistair's annoyed tone, the pitch of which echoed around the filling room.  Eamon, as he often did, gave Alistair the signal to speak more quietly, and Alistair, as he often did, sighed and growled in response.  They were in the Great Hall, and Alistair was preparing to speak with various nobility about his plans for the newly aquired Amaranthine.  But as he'd learned, a new set of bodyguards had been dispatched to the room. Another assassination threat.   Eamon actually interrupted him, which was rare in itself, and caused the King's mouth to snap shut in surprise.   "Exactly, Your Majesty--" the title was said with all the exhaustion of a weary father figure, "We are approaching the battle's anniversary.  People have lost much, they are worried, they have resentment.  They will take it out anywhere they can, and Loghain did a fair job at assuring his legacy left bitter would-be parasites in his wake." This made the usually placid expression on Alistair's face darken incredibly, and he huffed, eyeing the room.   He hated living with this threat of suspicion, and he wanted to be rid of it.  He also hated the idea of lining the castle with endless guards and firing all the staff--again--and more or less existing in a bunker.   "Do what you must, then," he said as his usual attentiveness to duty took over his inward complaining; the King rolled his shoulders and moved toward the throne, eyes on him as he gathered himself and prepared to speak.  When he huffed, standing on the carpeted flagstone, the room hushed, and Alistair's own voice was a hum to him.  He didn't think about what he said--ever---but the words seemed to flow, and as his gaze flicked around the room he caught a hint of the Arl's smile.  Eamon was proud of Alistair, though he'd never said so much, but Alistair supposed it would have to do. The rest of the crowd looked enraptured too.  He could not imagine why; he was an idiot, and his words were probably stupid half-pieced together thoughts--but he'd heard plenty of times how he reminded everyone of his brother and father, who were beloved.  That was probably it.  He didn't mind; anything to get through the talky bits and move forward with his plans for the Grey Wardens.  Nothing mattered more to him.  Not anymore. But Alistair's stream of consciousness and his flow was broken when the crowd gasped; he heard it all at once.  A rushing sound as the room erupted into motion, volume heightening, a swift rush of an arrow that made his warrior instincts pivot and duck almost supernaturally, though he had no idea from whence the arrow flew--he almost pondered aloud if he should make his next speech in full armor and helmet, but the King was taken aback when he turned.   The shadow behind his throne, where no guards were posted.  He at first didn't understand the strange, slow-motion vision of the servant falling back, and pivoted toward her to help, before he saw the long mean curve of a blade that now fell, and the long arrow that protruded from her shoulder.  Then, before he could react more than staring, open-mouthed, guards rushed in and closed the space between him.  Alistair's only thoughts were of the arrow--he knew every royal-issued weapon in the armory, and those arrows were not of Denerim's guard.  He spun again on his heel, staring up, and paused at the odd, unexpected sight of a hidden shock of hair on the balcony level.  More guards had already rushed that way, as well, and Alistair's brief glimpse at the archer was interrupted by the wall of armor.   Eamon was speaking, guards were pushing him back, but in a rare display of anger, the blond shoved the men away and angrily strode forward, his voice booming in a way that--though he had no way of knowing--his father's had, long ago.  "I am fine, we will continue!  Now that the guard know where to look, I suppose!"  This caused nervous laughter amid the still-frightened crowd.  Some had fled the room, or tried--blockaded by guards.   Alistair stepped forward and his voice rose even higher.  "If any man or woman wishes to leave this chamber, they may do so--only stay here if you feel your safety is in danger!  My guard is securing the castle."  He said this with a dark stare thrown over his shoulder at the head of the guards, who shrank away even though he held an axe toward the assassin's throat.   "The rest of us, if we may continue-- I only have a brief address.  And then I will finish my address, with thanks to my rescuer!"  He flung a hand upward; Alistair assumed the archer was working in tandem with the guards.  Several people did leave the chamber, and the others applauded.  He knew it would likely look heroic, and performative, but really, Alistair just couldn't handle dealing with all of this twice if he didn't have to.  Better to get it out of the way now.   -------------------- As the chamber emptied, the King turned back to the watchman, his annoyance creeping onto his features as his nose crinkled and his eyebrows lowered.  "So then...you've locked the assassin away?" "She is in the dungeon, Sire, along with two accomplices we tracked down outside the Hall." "And their way in?" "We're interrogating several of the servant heads of staff." "And who was the fellow who flew the odd-looking arrow?" The watch snorted, and his lip curled underneath his helm.  "Dalish." Alistair blinked rapidly.  "Wait, hang on--it wasn't---?" The watchman only just realized the dire mistake he made, and as anger crossed the King's features again, he bumbled his answer.  Alistair's lips clenched tightly closed, and his nostrils flared.  "Where." "In...in the dungeon as well...." "Eamon," the King snapped, his jovial tone completely spent.  "Fire these men." Eamon chuckled; he seemed to enjoy Alistair's anger, especially when it was aimed at those deserving of it.  He answered, not that Alistair heard; he beckoned Silas and gestured toward the back doors.  Behind the throne area, one door went toward his chambers, and the other went down to the kitchens and dungeons.  As Silas fell into step beside him, the King explained, "I've got to sort this out...first with who wants me dead and why, but also, who saved me and why.  Do we have any Dalish servants?" "Heavens no...no Dalish would dare--" "That's what I thought.  Messengers?  Couriers?  Liasons?" "Not that I know of." He nodded at the councilman.  "Go check on our merry band of killers, and ensure the one who was shot is getting treatment.  Find out what you can about the archer, and get him out of the damn dungeon and into a stateroom.  One of the guest rooms.  Don't let him leave though--" Alistair paused, realizing that most Dalish would not want to linger and deal with a Fereldan monarch, "I want to find out what the hell is going on.  But I need to get out of these ridiculous clothes." Many times Silas and others chastised this decision, saying such nonsense as a King shouldn't parade around without a cape and furs, but Alistair hated it.  He'd wear the crown if they absolutely insisted, but there was no need for a fur collar, stole, cape and fancy embroidered chestplate--at this rate, they might as well get him into a ballgown and call it good, for all the trouble it cost him. "What shall I tell the archer, Sire?" "Err...say...that I am grateful, and that I am sending up a plate of fine cheese and wine, and that I had to untie the strings of my girdle before coming up." Silas rolled his eyes, but said no more, his smile betraying his amusement as Alistair pointed at him.  "Ahhh! Got you, there's a smile--was that so hard?  I'm the one getting killed at today, everybody else can smile a little bit.  Except maybe the people trying to kill me.  They get no cheese, nothing." "Are you going to interrogate them as well?" "Perhaps there's a connection between rescuer and assassin, I need to ask, but I've plenty of madmen chomping at the bit to torture some murder-friendly bandits I'm sure.  No, I'll let them sit in the dark for awhile and think about what they've done, then I'll worry about it myself." "Am I to assume you would like me to fetch a kitchen maid, if any are to be found?" "Right, anyone you can trust with cheese."  He strode through the door, eager to feel like a man in regular clothes, and less like a dressed up dolly.  created by creativian Add Comment