Character Name: Sebastian Vael
Age (estimate if canon): 30 (somewhere around there)
Allegiance (mages, templars, neutral/indifferent etc.): Tends to side more with the Templars, but does not wholeheartedly disagree with the mages’ plight, either. As with seemingly everything else, he sits the fence more often than not.
Specialisation(s): Archery. Precision archery.
Occupation: Heir to the throne of Starkhaven and Chantry Brother
Weaponry: His grandfather’s bow, miasmic flasks and flash bombs, short curved daggers for close-range fighting
Build: Althletic, broad shoulders and muscled chest, back, and arms due to years of pulling bows
Notable Markings: Spatterings of freckles along his various body parts here and there, though they are not prevalent.
Location (where they live): Currently? Kirkwall Chantry.
Biography: The third wheel of the royal family of Starkhaven, Sebastian started young as a rake and troublemaker. At first it was only to garner attention from the disapproving family he was part of, but then it became habit, and he ultimately was a devout worshiper or hedonism. The only person he ever regretted disappointing was his grandfather, who was the one he looked up to the most when he didn’t find anything he liked about his father or older brothers. Everything changed once his mother and father banished him to the Chantry of Kirkwall, leagues away from his beloved haunts in Starkhaven. He raged and tried to run away, but was astonished when the Grand Cleric of his perceived prison actually helped him escape… and consequently helped him find his faith. He found peace and faith not only in the Maker, but learned (and at times was still learning) to find the same within himself.
Personality: Those who poke jests at him for being so devout don’t do two things, Sebastian has found: they don’t ever ask him about his past (not that he elaborates on it much, anymore), and they don’t spend the time to talk with him about things other than matters of faith. Only Hawke has ever done that, and Hawke, despite having a quick and sharp tongue, was never one to divulge secrets—even those only perceived as such. He is no longer that brash, selfish boy of his early manhood, but rather tries to do for others in the way so few had done for him. He is mindful of his past, to not fall back into the same hedonistic ways (not to say he doesn’t miss them more often than he’d admit), but still remains uncertain of his future. He was never was truly expecting to have one, and now that all paths are open to him, sometimes it is all he can to do keep his nose above the waterline of overwhelming decision.
Other: He has a lot of old skills from his past that Isabella would kill to find out about (first-hand, probably), but he isn’t revealing any of them. He does, however, enjoy sweeping wins of Wicked Grace because everyone underestimates him.
Roleplay Sample (at least 2 paragraphs):
Ringing. There was a constant ringing, and it reverberated in and through his skull. A groan left him without him remembering making the noise, and he rolled over and cracked open one eye. It was… It sure was bright out. Opening his other eye, he waited for the room to come into focus (something that took entirely too long), and realised he was in his cell at the Chantry, and it had to have been well into late morning.
“Son of a—” Sebastian shot up like a dart and immediately regretted it. All the blood that was in his head rushed out of it and what was left began pounding. Noon. It was the noon bells he was hearing. Putting a hand to his head, he closed his eyes again. He hadn’t slept this late in years—not since the first few years he had been in Kirkwall, in fact. What in the corners of the Void had he done last night?
The bells finally stopped (though much of the ringing remained in his head a moment after their initial sounds faded), and Sebastian could think clearly again. Wicked Grace. That’s what had happened to him. A game he was extremely good at under normal circumstances, but now he recalled Isabella paying for his drinks. That never boded well. She always bought him straight mugs of the hard stuff rather than ale, and while Sebastian was no stranger to whisky or rum (or most everything between), he couldn’t keep up like he used to. He must have really gotten lax if he let her bring him that many drinks.
Mildly, he wondered how he had gotten into his cell last night. At least he—or whomever had dragged his sorry drunken self in—had enough sense to get him in bed. The last time (which had actually be the first and only up until now) Isabella had convinced him to get drunk, he had found himself face-first on the floor. Thankfully, it had been on Hawke’s floor, and his fellow brothers and sisters of the Chantry had been spared the sight. He hoped he had come in late enough last night to escape notice. It was unseemly for him to be in such a state—that and he had promised himself never to become like that again. Then again, everything seemed different with Hawke around.
Standing and shuffling over to his modest washing basin, he doused his face with water and grimaced at his reflection in the mirror hanging on the wall. He had come back looking worse, at times, he reminisced. Slightly hung-over never could compare with barely-escaping-death-by-a-dragon.
Next time, however, he would wipe the floor with that Rivaini in Wicked Grace. And never let her buy him drinks again.