#about.jethro

It didn’t snow in the Anderfels. The Anderfels was wind and sand and sun. When a boy named Jethro was ripped from his mother’s caravan during the lull before dawn, the wind had quieted, the sand was still, and the sun was still under the horizon. While a trio of Tevinter slavers knocked the boy unconscious and slung him into a cart with four others and skirted the Orlesian border to spirit their elven cargo back to Tevinter post-haste, the only thing that stirred the sand was the horses’ well-shod heels.

As Jethro’s mother wailed, rending her clothing, the imprint of the slaver’s ring still in her lacerated cheek, neither sun nor wind had solace to offer her.

Magister Cassius called the whip-thin, stone-faced Ander boy ‘Third’, at first-- for he was third in Cassius’ sextet of young elven slaves. Later, when Cassius began to favour Third, began to fall in love with the way his body healed and hid all injury, with the way his lips never parted to cry out and his eyes never welled with tears, Cassius made Third first, and gave him a name-- Angiculus.

But when Cassius’ little snake tossed his shoulders back and shed his skin, took in the red lyrium that Cassius fed him and let it flower in his blood, let in the spirits that found him in the Fade and heeded their whispered instructions... when Cassius’ little snake turned red lyrium against him and then looked deep into his eyes as he slid the dagger in to the hilt with almost loving slowness, Cassius could only call him demon.

Jethro carefully wiped the blade clean and slipped it into the cloth belt wound around his slim hips, his own blood singing with power. He hadn’t thought he could do it-- but blessedly, the spirits and his own lyrium-infused blood didn’t give him time to think. He’d uncoiled and struck, and now he waited.

The spirits left him to infiltrate the slaves like a virus. Elven youth that had felt Jethro’s fingertips brush them in the months leading up to now were seeing visions. They were looking upon their masters with new eyes. They were uncoiling and striking. The Magisterium was running red with blood, and this time it was theirs.

Jethro stepped out onto Cassius’ balcony and felt the wind on his scarred cheeks. Next came snow, cold and sharp and stinging, like sand in an Ander storm. The wind picks up, driving the snow against him, and though he is underdressed, he doesn’t shiver or hustle back indoors.

aw yissss

(send me a headcanon and I’ll give you a character)

Always happy

Shaun, the unknowing future King of Albion. He’s had a good life, all told, and he’s walked his own path, and the slings and arrows he’s suffered he’s always managed to shrug off with aplomb. He’s a real solid guy, the kind of guy you can trust and depend on because he isn’t so weighted down with baggage that he has no energy for anything else. I guess that’s why if anyone should be monarch of that jacked-up country, it should be him. (Unfortunately, those kind of guys are often the same ones that don’t want to be monarchs of anything.)

Can punch someone and the person they punched would thank them

I’m gonna say Adrian Shepard. Like, Adrian’s hot. He’s that kind of hot that puts him on people’s “I’d go straight/gay for” lists… or “please bodyslam me into the mattress” lists. (Don’t act like you don’t have one of those.) And he has a reputation for punching people, let’s be real (although he tries his best not to! he really does!). Also, the people he punches really seem to deserve it at that moment in time, so you can guarantee that if he punches you, you probably should have shut your trap like ten minutes ago, and well, he could have done a lot worse than just punch you. Renegades always can do a lot worse than just punching you.

Would murder someone if given the opportunity

Jethro. He was a slave. The idea of murdering slavers makes him salivate. It’s why he’s so stoic – even he’s afraid of how much blood he’d bathe in if he let himself. (He does kill people, of course. He killed Magister Cassius. But he would much rather delegate the murderin’ so he can keep his cool.)

Likes pretzels

Annis ar Kattrin o Frosthold. But he likes them the Avvar way– big and dripping with animal fat, fried crispy on the outside and hot and doughy on the inside, sprinkled with sugar. More like what we’d call funnel cake, honestly. He had a Marcher pretzel once and it was small and hard and he was so confused and insulted.

(Also, pretzels remind him of Alistair. Big and doughy and sweet to a fault.)

Can knock out someone’s tooth in one punch

I have a lot of OCs in general, so I’ll try to just pick the best out of the Thedosians. I’ve narrowed it down to three–

Candide Caron, the Orlesian Warden, whose actual combat skills aren’t necessarily the best but whose keen interest in tactical strategy (both on the field and off) makes her a great asset to Warden-Commander Alistair – and eventually, even Warden-Constable Loghain has to admit to a grudging respect of her.

Jethro, later known as Jethro the Liberator, whose main skill is patience. What he lacks in speed he makes up for in endurance; his uprising in Tevinter takes much more time than should seem necessary, until you realise how many weak spots were carefully noted and further weakened over time, making the infrastructure ripe for the collapsing.

Yngvar Cadash*, the Inquisitor’s Scourge, whose speciality is the underground (often literally). He can get into and out of anywhere, can kill without making a sound (although he often enjoys making sound), and is an efficient cleaner, leaving no trace of himself behind (although he often enjoys leaving a calling card). He’s versatile, enthusiastic about his work, and devoid of attachments – exactly what the Tyrant Inquisitor requires.