Neve and Verinius are heading home after a meal at the Cobbled Swan. Veryl is rambling, while Neve listens with amused scepticism, already sensing something is off.
V: (gesturing with his hand, voice full of enthusiasm) "You know, uh, apples from the region around Marothius near the Hundred Pillars are excellent for cider! That’s because the acidic old apple varieties thrive best in the loess soil of the local orchards there. They’re a bit—"
N: (side-eyes him, smirking knowingly) "You’re trying to hide something from me."
Verinius hesitates for half a second—just long enough to be noticeable—then immediately doubles down, talking faster, as if speed will save him.
V: (rushed, waving his hand like this is a completely normal conversation) "—more irregular than table apples, but they’re considered pure and contain special nutrients."
Neve, already enjoying this too much, tilts her head slightly, her smirk widening.
N: (mock-curious, voice laced with amusement) "Verinius, what did you do?"
Verinius laughs nervously, a bit too high-pitched, before quickly waving his hand as if dismissing the absurdity of this question.
V: (still grinning, eyes darting away) "What? Me? Nothing. There is absolutely no connection between cider and… uh… that localized atmospheric implosion from yesterday."
Neve raises an eyebrow, her expression practically daring him to keep going. The silence stretches just long enough for Verinius to realize he's in danger.
N: (mock-patiently, waiting for him to dig his own grave) "If there's blood splattered on the walls I'm not helping you clean it up. I'll make sure 'Fred doesn't help you either."
Verinius clears his throat, suddenly very interested in adjusting his belt, before launching back into his apple monologue with desperation.
V: (talking way too fast) "Well, uh—Malcarnis Red, you know, they already start getting sweet early, around Parvulis, right? But then there’s Virdanthe Aurelis, which—um—needs more time to fully, you know, build up the right sugar levels. Which is crucial, obviously, because you can’t just pick them too early, otherwise the flavour profile is—"
Mid-sentence, he notices Neve has stopped walking, arms crossed, weight shifted onto one hip, staring at him with an all-too-knowing smile. His fingers fidget at his collar, resisting the urge to pull at it as his brain scrambles for an escape plan.
N: (slowly, savouring every second of his obvious panic) "I’m going to find out what you did, believe me."
Verinius swallows hard. He knows she will...
Big thank you goes to Jukkari for helping me sort the dialogue, make the text work and reassuring me to not give in to anxiety - finally posting this project
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@frauleiiin tagged me to do an OC Interview 2 weeks ago. I've read through hers and doubted I could make T answer those questions in character. @jukkaricity came up with an idea of how it might be possible to make that man talk about his past. Yeah, well... it became an interrogation instead.
Dead Dove: Do Not Eat
CW: Forced Confinement // CW: Psychological Torture / Interrogation // CW: Emotional Manipulation / Gaslighting // CW: Identity Crisis / Loss of Self // CW: Dissociation / Depersonalization // CW: Past Abuse (Institutional & Interpersonal) // CW: War Themes / Military Trauma // CW: Moral Injury / Betrayal // CW: Self-Loathing / Guilt / Shame // CW: Suicidal Ideation (implied) // CW: Trauma Responses // CW: Touch Aversion / Physical Contact Issues // CW: Abandonment / Relationship Breakdown // CW: Emotional Suppression / Burnout // CW: Mentions of Death / Execution / Killing // and the shitload I forgot to mention // T isn't an easy person.
This became some kind of a weird-ass short story. Not classical fiction and strangely formatted. Hard to read. Hard to follow. As is T :)
18 days and 2,6 words wasted waiting to be released into the void. If you don't feel like reading through, please enjoy my cringy header :D
I'm tagging @dragonfoxstar Fraulein's original post can be found here
Black.
No—not pitch-black.
Just enough to see.
There are no walls. Infinite. Suffocating.
A figure, barely defined.
Tahr’rys. Suspended in the dark.
Upright, though not by choice.
Held in place.
Trapped.
His eyes scan for an exit—or an explanation.
There’s no memory of arriving.
Minutes pass.
The quiet isn’t empty.
He can feel it.
Something is here—with him.
Staying just out of sight.
The air shifts.
Fabric rustles.
Behind him.
Then a voice.
Male. Distorted. Low-volume. Measured.
“Name?”
Tahr’rys stays silent.
He tries to move. Nothing.
It’s not just physical, not entirely.
“Name.”
No shift in tone. Just repeated.
“...Tahr’rys Nelubin.”
No acknowledgement.
“Alias.”
“Sparks. T.”
“Skahvas.”
Tahr’rys doesn’t react.
But internally, he halts.
“Are you single?”
That’s not a question he expected.
Brows creasing.
The voice waits silently.
An exhale—
“Define ‘single.’”
The stall is ignored.
“You wouldn’t call it a relationship. Not in the conventional sense.”
Tahr’rys’ jaw clenches. The answer wasn’t his. But it’s true.
The interrogation is not following protocol.
“Birthplace.”
“Trailing Sectors. Grid L14.”
The correction is instant.
“Xozhixi. Thyferra. Polith System. Jaso Sector. Inner Rim.”
Silence.
There were records.
Imperial. Archived.
Erased when the Empire rebuilt.
“Hair colour?”
A change in his breath.
“…Dark brown.”
A pause.
“Greying out.”
He doesn’t know why he adds that.
A new habit? Maybe.
“Eye colour?”
Closing his eyes before responding.
“Ember orange, formerly dark brown.”
“Birthday?”
A frustrated exhale.
“Eleven. Zero two. Thirty-two seven eighty-seven TYA, thirteen BTC.”
He's opening his eyes again.
“What—”
“Gender.”
Cold. Detached. Waiting for input.
“Male.”
Shorter now. Clipped.
The edge in his voice is showing.
“Mood.”
He doesn’t answer.
Refusing to play along.
But the voice supplies it for him.
“Burnt out.”
And he hates how accurate that sounds.
“Are you happy?”
No answer.
He won’t give it the satisfaction.
“Not quite, you’d say.”
“But you’re content with the present. That’s more than you’ve expected to be at this point, isn’t it?”
Tahr’rys stares straight ahead.
No protest. No denial.
The darkness is drawing closer.
Encroaching.
“Are you angry?”
Silence.
“You get irritated easily. With your frustration sitting close to the surface.”
A pause.
“But you’re rarely truly angry. Not anymore…”
T presses his tongue against the back of his teeth.
The broken incisor digs in—sharp, familiar.
Is this real?
“Summer or winter?”
His jaw twitches.
A test. A probe.
Has to be.
This time, he answers.
“No preferences. Weather’s a condition to endure.”
What is this all about?
“Morning or afternoon?”
“Afternoon.”
A scoff—low and bitter.
“But I can operate 24/7 if required.”
If it was meant as a joke, it doesn’t land.
“Are you in love?”
Tahr’rys’ eyes narrow as he stills.
The shift is immediate—hostile now.
He won’t dignify that question.
Won’t let it go on record.
But the voice doesn’t care.
And its answer hits him like a slap.
“Yes. You are.”
“You’d never name it that way, but it’s all over you when you think of the Togruta.”
How do they know that?
Anger flares.
He strains against the ties.
Useless.
“Who ended your last relationship?”
Whoever holds him here—
Knows too much. Cuts too close.
And keeps pushing.
“Relah did.”
He says it before it can.
Just spite.
His truth, not its.
“No—not really.”
“You’re the cause.”
A sharp inhale.
Tahr'rys wants to act. Now.
To silence the intruder.
To watch the life drain from their eyes.
“She wouldn’t have, if I hadn’t—”
He cuts it off. Abrupt.
The voice circles him.
Always just out of reach.
What the fuck is this shitshow?!
He wills his body to move.
Reaches for the Force.
But for the first time in years—Nothing.
It’s ignoring him.
Again.
He’s locked in place.
Teeth clenched.
Trying to make sense.
Thoughts rush in. Intrusive. Loud.
This is no standard handler.
Not Jedi. Not Republic. Not entirely Imperial...
A Sith.
It has to be.
The term lands like a drop of poison.
“You’re from the Empire.”
No confirmation.
But no denial, either.
And that silence is worse.
How? When?
Panic flushes through him.
Ceasing the anger.
Slowing his pulse.
That creeping certainty coils around his spine.
And settles in.
They’ve found me.
He starts to sweat.
Blood rushing in his ears.
Slow. Thrumming. Deafening.
He knows this feeling.
Knows it too well.
Knows what comes next.
His mind begins to slip—
Not now…
Tahr'rys is trying to hold on.
But his thoughts unhook, one by one.
Familiar static hisses beneath them.
The interrogation continues.
“Have you ever broken someone’s heart?”
He tries not to respond.
Yet something in him bypasses the self that resists.
“More than once. Never clean.”
The admission opens a rift behind the words.
“I left my parents when I joined the military. We stayed in touch—for a while.”
“Then the Empire flagged me. Force-sensitive. Listed me KIA.”
“That’s when they sent me to the Sith.”
“After that… I couldn’t reach them out.”
“Now that I can…”
“You haven’t.”
“Relah—that was during my time with the Sphere of Mysteries. I lost myself. Lost control. Hurt her.”
“We met again. Years later. By chance. She came back to me.”
“But the damage stayed.”
“Neo… almost seven years. Bounty Hunters. 313 Bad Company.”
“Until truth was brought to light. He’s Dar’manda. Lied to me the whole time.”
“I walked away. We didn’t speak. I didn’t look back.”
“You… just left.”
The voice says it with him.
“Are you afraid of commitments?”
A shallow exhale—dry. Involuntary.
“To a degree...”
“You’re always halfway gone.”
He’s slipping. Awareness thinning.
Hearing himself talking, but doesn’t remember deciding to.
“Not the bond itself. But what comes with it.”
“Emotional intensity… I don’t process it properly anymore.”
“The closer something gets, the more likely it is to push me past thresholds I can’t regulate.”
“It’s not just relationships. It applies to everything. Professional. Personal…”
The voice takes over where he loses grip.
“Commitments carry weight. More than you can hold.”
“So you don’t make them.”
“Easier to function that way.”
“Isn’t it?”
It laughs.
Or maybe he does.
The sound lands somewhere between pity and contempt.
Eyes like split embers resolve out of the dark.
His perception rejects the image.
“Have you hugged someone within the last week?”
The question drips with irony.
“I avoid physical contact whenever possible.”
His mind’s still catching up.
“Touch isn’t something you initiate.”
“Or accept lightly.”
Hard to tell where the voice ends and he begins anymore.
“...Who’d want to hug someone like me, anyway?”
The admission sits there.
“Have you ever had a secret admirer?”
The question doesn’t land cleanly.
“…Yes.”
“At least twice?”
The thoughts pour out half-aware.
“First time—Ziost. School. A classmate.”
“She used to… watch. From a distance.”
“Didn’t speak.”
“Didn’t know what to do with that kind of attention.”
“Confusing you.”
No defined feeling.
“Second time was the military.”
“Training year. Same unit.”
“Female recruit.”
“We spent a few nights.”
“No promises. Nothing serious.”
“Not for her. Not for me.”
“…you think.”
Drifting.
The questions fracture—mocking now.
“Love or lust?”
The answer lags.
“Love. If anything.”
“Felt curiosity. Mostly earlier in life.”
“Didn’t stick.”
“Connection matters.”
“It’s the only thing that lasts.”
T’s mind trails behind the words.
“Iced tea or lemonade?”
“Neither.”
“Tea, maybe. Hot. No sugar.”
Strong enough to pass for solvent.
Functional. Bitter. No sweetness. No chill.
“Cats or dogs?”
“Felines”
No demands.
No confusion.
They don’t wait.
Just take. Leave.
That feels…
Something. Right. Maybe.
Gone is fine.
“A few best friends, or many regular friends?”
“…Few.”
“No energy for the rest.”
“Surface… doesn’t… stay.”
“No chasing.”
The rhythm of his breathing still steady, but slightly off.
“Wild night, or romantic night in?”
“Neither.”
“Better alone.”
“Or someone safe.”
He’s not sure why that matters.
Not really. Not anymore.
“Day or night?”
“Space is always dark.”
“Just want… peace.”
“…night. Maybe.”
Orders. Obedience. Doctrine.
Didn’t eat.
Still don’t like to.
Now?
Looks healthier. Still not good.
“...all sizes...”
“Doesn’t change what they… do.”
The voice and his intertwine. Merge.
Become internal.
Intelligence or looks?
Intelligence. Always.
No patience for charm.
The pronouns slip. Shift. Drift.
Hook-up or relationship?
Neither.
He doesn’t seek out either.
Not on purpose. Not anymore.
If it happens at all.
The voice seems sounding familiar.
Do you and your family get along?
They did. Once.
Was close to his parents growing up.
There was a bond. Love. Care. Tahsin. Sahr’ra...
Left the scientific path they hoped for.
Pain?
Twenty years ago.
Sorrow?
Reaching out would mean facing them.
Admitting they were right.
Letting them see what you’ve become.
Resentment?
It’s better this way.
Something deeper.
"Would you say you’ve messed up in life?"
Profoundly.
He's listening to the sound of the voice, as it spills out of his mouth.
"You followed orders that shouldn’t have been followed."
"Believed in systems that dressed atrocity as duty."
"And duty as virtue."
Chose the Empire over values you were raised with.
Thought structure would shield you from chaos.
Buried doubt. Shut people out. Hurt them. Killed under orders.
Leaned on discipline when needed clarity.
"By the time you understood what that made you—"
"It was already too late."
"It cost you your parents."
"Your identity. Your conscience."
"Eventually, your sense of self."
His breath shallows.
Things worsened under the Sith.
When you learned you were Force-sensitive.
You began to hate it.
"Years later, you killed your master."
"To silence him. To make everything stop."
"It didn’t."
Got arrested for killing a Darth. Nertex.
Interrogated. The Sith who isn’t one. They made you one.
Reassigned to internal purging.
"To kill other Sith—Traitors. Defectors. Factional liabilities."
"You slid deeper into fanaticism."
"Obedience was easier than reflection."
"You drove Relah away. With your behaviour. Your delusions."
"But everything you suppressed eventually broke containment."
"The guilt. The violence. The justifications. The anger. The undirected hate."
A body. His.
The mind gave out a final time.
You panicked. Ran.
Panicked. Escaped. Volatile. Dangerous.
"This was the start of your self-refusal. The Force. Everything."
"A dissociative freeze."
"You didn’t invite it, just waited near its edge. Not moving when the ground gave way."
"Shattering your core."
It is quivering.
Neo found you years later, adrift.
Barely functional. Unresponsive. Silent.
Living. Breathing. But not present.
"Parts of yourself resurfaced."
You met Erin.
And Relah…
The spiral slows.
"But trust fractured again—"
Neo… I…
I left him behind.
This time, I wasn’t alone.
Erin holds contact.
Relah came with me. Because of me.
She stayed. Still does.
Confusion.
An exhale.
"You’re not at peace."
"But you accepted who you are."
Messed up?
Something settles.
"Yes."
"Without question."
Tahr’rys is still inside the memory, but no longer drowning.
Thoughts form.
"Have you ever run away from home?"
No.
It would’ve been seen as defiance.
Your family lived under Scrutiny.
"Have you ever been kicked out?"
Transferred. Reassigned. Redirected.
No.
The systems always found use for you.
"Do you secretly hate one of your friends?"
People don’t get close enough for that.
Hate takes Energy. You’re long past wasting any.
"Do you consider all your friends as good?"
No. But honest.
People are capable of damage and decency at once.
If they’re still with me… it’s because they don’t lie about who they are.
"Who’s your best friend?"
That question lands.
Awareness cuts in. Sudden. Sharp.
"Kitan."
Military. Trenches. Sniping.
We fought together.
Bled. Comrades-in-arms.
Then I hated him.
For the report. For what it came after.
For branding me as Force-sensitive.
For the betrayal.
That wasn’t.
He didn’t know.
Neither did I.
He did his duty.
I rewrote it as treason.
Because hating him was easier than hating the system.
A feeling. Not hate. Guilt? No. Regret...
"Neo."
He captured me.
Couldn’t sell me. Kept me.
Zakuul. The war. System collapse.
We partnered.
I owe him much.
He knew who I was. What I was.
Didn’t trash me. Even if he could.
Spent years together—hunting bounties. Off-grid.
Sparse words. No questions.
He’s what makes a true friend, but I reduced him to the thing he couldn’t face.
Another feeling breaks through. Betrayal. Not fresh. Beneath it lies grief. And mourning.
"Then Erin."
We met through Neo.
She saw me. Didn’t pretend I wasn’t dangerous.
Didn’t flinch, doesn’t shy away.
More feelings. Fear. Respect. Amusement? He scoffs. Brief but real.
We share the same kind of humour. Mostly.
She’s a menace. Pure lucid insanity. Mocks me.
But never demanded change.
A slow, deliberate inhale.
Reclaiming. Remembering. Returning.
A shiver works through his frame.
"Relah…"
A feeling. Not one but a storm of many. Shame. Anger. Guilt. Self-Loathing. Gratitude… Safety.
We met again by chance.
She should’ve walked away.
Was angry. Had every right to be.
But she saw what I’d become—
And stayed. Chose me.
Over the Jedi.
Over reason.
Over everything I did.
She reached me.
When I didn’t think I was still reachable.
She never asked for more than truth.
I wish her to see it...
And I want her to stay anyway.
To what’s left.
To who I am.
I’m tired of hiding.
He lifts his hands, staring at his barely visible palms.
Small sparks ignite. Blue-violet. Crackling faintly. A Light against the dark.
The Force came back.
With him.
How long have I been here? Was I alone the whole time?
A final question arises in his mind.
"Who knows everything about you?"
Relah… probably comes closest.
She heard enough to piece together the parts I still can’t say.
For the Sith-Empire?
I’m a dead man. Just another casualty of war. The Spheres folded. It’s not even the same Empire anymore.
So, no one holds the full picture.
But I do.
I, myself.
“Tahr'rys Nelubin.”
As he speaks his name aloud, the man jolts upright in bed, sheets soaked, skin clammy with sweat. For a moment, Tahr’rys doesn’t know where he is. Panic flickers—brief, sharp—then it's gone.
The Ship. His Ship. Alone in hyperspace. He repeats it, anchoring himself.
They’d shut the cockpit’s blast shields earlier, to keep the pulsing light of the simu-tunnel from bleeding in. The night cycle is active. Everything is dim.
We went to sleep. Right…
Tahr’rys sits up slowly and settles on the edge of the bunk, his feet meeting the cold, familiar floor plates. Across the narrow walkway, Relah sleeps inside her own recessed berth—peaceful. Undisturbed.
He thinks about reaching for her. But doesn’t. He’d talk to her. Not now. Just… later.
Quietly, he rises and walks to their small galley unit. He fills a glass with water. Drinks. Pauses. Then moves to the bathroom to shower. The light flickers bright before the door closes behind him.
Author's note: I lost track of the tenses. Plus, this is a first time for writing things from T's perspective - I never tried. Never dared. Please have mercy.
Let me introduce my notRook Veilguard OC Verinius Sabelis Phalban. He goes by many names and is a byproduct of @jukkaricity's recent dive into Thedas and can usually be found alongside her also notRook OC Alectris Mercar. Jukkari gave him a voice, the game gave us the looks while I gave him his personality and so V has ended up as a full-fledged character over time. A & V are Blorbos by Proxy ❤️
TLDR Intro Version
Verinius is a brilliant, socially inept mage who exists in his own world of books, Minrathous fantasies and blood magic experiments. He has the talent of a prodigy and the social instincts of a brick, managing to alienate everyone around him except his cat, Andoralis, whom he insists is the only living creature worthy of his full attention.
He is utterly convinced that Minrathous represents the pinnacle of civilization, despite barely engaging with its people beyond what is strictly necessary. His mind moves too fast for most and when people fail to keep up, he either ignores them entirely or offends them without meaning to.
He has no regard for the legal or ethical concerns of magic, specializing in blood magic (purely for research, of course, tho his own blood is another matter entirely) and storm magic (which builds up when left unused for too long, resulting in frizzed hair and sparks discharging at inconvenient moments).
Alectris is the only person who comes close to truly understanding him, though her return to his life comes with a sharp reminder: she is not going to let him get away with talking to his cat more than actual people.
Background & Introduction (before the Veilguard)
To an unknowing observer, Verinius might appear to be the most Tevinter mage among Tevinter mages—at least slightly snobbish, accustomed to comfort and absolutely in love with Minrathous, or rather, the idea of the city he has cultivated in his imagination for years. The truth, however, is quite different. He comes from a small village near Marothius, deep within the Hundred Pillars, far from the empire’s beating heart. His family has owned an apple orchard for generations and while his magical talent may have elevated their status to Laetans, little has changed for them since he left for the Circle. Not that they mind—his parents and siblings take great pride in their work and are content with their peaceful life.
Veryl’s magic surfaced early—wild, untamed and far beyond what his family could hope to manage. With no other mages among them and little understanding of such power, they had few options when the inevitable summons arrived. A Tevinter child, especially one crackling with barely contained lightning, was never going to stay in a remote village. The decision was out of his parents' hands and by the time he was five, Verinius had already been sent to the Circle at Carastes. There, he trained for several years before being transferred to Minrathous at twelve, where his potential was deemed better suited to the capital. The move, however, came at a cost—Minrathous was far from home and distance meant that visits became rare, his connection to his family reduced to letters and memories.
And so Veryl spent most of his early life within the Circles, his world shaped not just by their walls but by what it meant to be a mage in Tevinter. Yet the structured pace of learning tested his patience; too slow, too rigid, never deep enough and constantly disrupted by the distractions of his peers. Carastes was more than happy to send him to Minrathous, where both his potential and his troublesome nature would become someone else’s concern. Lacking natural social graces, his background was working against him. While others fit in with ease, he often felt like he was speaking a language no one else understood—quite literally, in some cases, as his tendency to over-explain resulted in more than one awkward silence. It never stopped him from trying, much to everyone's dismay.
During his years in the Circles, few things had ever gotten under his skin, but meeting Alectris in his late teens proved to be an exception. Unfazed by his unpolished personality, she quickly became a constant thorn in his side—one he was surprised to find himself growing fond of. Eventually, a Magister recognized Verinius’ potential and claimed him as an apprentice. Verixsus brought him to his estate, pulling him into a far larger world. The rigid life of the Circle gave way to a more demanding, fluid apprenticeship, but with it came a privilege: four visits home each year instead of one. And no matter how much Minrathous holds his heart, it never truly dulled the pull of home—not that he ever spoke of it much.
Like him, Alectris left the Circle, though she chose the army instead. Over the years, their friendship became quieter; distance and duty dulling what had once been constant. He never quite stopped missing her, but life in Minrathous had a way of swallowing time and before he knew it, years had slipped away. He got along well with his master, but a mentor was no substitute for a best friend—Alec had been the only one who could truly keep up with him and he missed her. The void she left was filled by a stray cat he found on his master’s estate. Or rather, the cat found him and decided she would adopt him. From that day on, Andoralis became his ever-present shadow, named after the day she entered his life.
Eight years passed before Alectris finally left the army and returned from her deployment in Seheron. She could hardly believe what she saw. Verinius had grown utterly fixated on his cat, perhaps too much for her liking—holding entire conversations with Andoralis as if expecting her to reply and acting as if her approval was of the utmost importance. Alectris had always known he was eccentric, but this was a new level of absurd. Worse, he had begun experimenting with volatile magic and had become adept at blood magic, making no effort to hide it. His methods, however, are unusual. While others wield blood without hesitation, he could never quite bear the sight of his own. If asked, he’d simply say fresh blood gives him headaches. Instead, he collects samples with eerie calm, studying ways to preserve their potency—never considering how unnerving this might be. To him, spilt blood holds no more weight than splattered ink.
Still, his time with Magister Verixsus had done him some good—his temper had evened out, he no longer openly insulted people for their lack of magical understanding as often and he carried himself with the easy confidence of someone who had long since stopped caring whether or not people found him strange. But beneath the polish, Alectris could still see flashes of her old friend—the insufferable know-it-all, the stubborn streak a mile wide, the way he lit up when talking about something that truly fascinated him. And despite years of silence, their friendship fell back into place with ease. As if no time had passed, Alectris slipped into her old role as a constant bother and Veryl, to her great satisfaction, responded exactly as he always had—overly dramatic, easily excitable and entirely unable to get rid of her.
Veryl can most often be found surrounded by books and vials, either studying magic (the less commonly available, the better—legality is not a concern) or completing his daily tasks as a scribe and Magister’s apprentice. He has an unfortunate talent for saying precisely the wrong thing at the worst possible moment, whether through tactlessness, sheer obliviousness or a total lack of concern for social norms. His magical expertise is undeniable, specializing in practical and constructive applications of blood magic, as well as a highly destructive form of storm magic for those rare moments when force becomes necessary. He can go from zero to vaporization in less than 0.3 seconds. He's eccentric and peculiar in both his interests and his mannerisms, somehow managing to offend whoever he speaks with or embarrass himself—often at the same time. The fact that his main conversation partner is Andoralis certainly does not help his predicament.
Verinius should, by all rights, be quietly buried in books somewhere, bothering no one but his cat. Instead, thanks to Alectris and a dragon with extreme renovation ideas for Minrathous, he’s now neck-deep in the Veilguard’s chaos. Meanwhile, our poor Rook (a dwarven Warden) is left juggling world-ending threats, blighted nightmares and—because the universe clearly hates him—two more walking disasters. At this rate, Wolfram Thorne will have to save Thedas by next Tuesday or risk losing the last shreds of his sanity.
For those interested in the BG, it's a paraphrase of the codex entry art on 'Dock Town Intel: The Place Itself'. It was solely created for practice and to give V and his cat a thematically fitting bg to stand on.
Some time ago, @jukkaricity and I talked about how our toons might interact with other OCs. The one we know best—thanks to frequent uploads and character insights—is @frauleiiin’s Jedi Knight, Maverik’a. She's the Alliance Commander within Fraulein's story universe, so why not have M deal with E and T at Odessen? Don't ask how the two got there; they simply materialised into existence...
Tahr'rys and Erin are doing absolutely nothing productive—just idling, indifferent to the flurry of activity around them. T sits comfortably, sipping his tea, while E tinkers with a technical device, half-fixing, half-dismantling it just to keep her hands busy. No one explicitly told them they had to be helpful and both took full advantage of this, much to the Commander's growing frustration.
T, as always, is pedantic and unwilling; following orders but only when given direct, precise commands. If there's room for interpretation, his results are technically correct but never quite what was intended. He is a jerk and far too clever, exploiting every loophole. E, on the other hand, is a walking menace, leaving explosions, electrical fires and mayhem in her wake, all under the guise of helping. She volunteers when asked, but at what cost?
After an incident involving Erin and Kaliyo (what started as a scam quickly escalated into a massive explosion at the base) Maverik'a finally forbids the two from even being in close proximity. Erin takes this personally, more opposed to this Alliance thing than before.
And Tahr'rys’ passive-aggressive defiance eventually wears down even a Jedi's patience. When Mave finally snaps and reproaches him for his indifferent, borderline rebellious behaviour, T simply turns mid-sermon and walks away—without a word, without a reaction. As if he hadn't even heard her.
Before exiting the base and heading to his ship, the former Sith gives a slight nod to the Chaos Gremlin, who flashes a mischievous grin, sticks out her tongue at the others and falls into step behind him. They leave behind a fuming Commander, baffled as to how these two became her responsibility.
Sorry for not being sorry Fraulein :D
Help, last week I got tagged by @jukkaricity to participate at @thedissonantverses' share the shit you're holding back Reflection Ruesday
Yeah, I've got way too much stuff lying around or never post finished work 'cause I get super anxious about negative feedback or getting none at all >.> That's why I don’t stress about how long things take, whether I finish them or scrap hours of work if the result fails my expectations. Same with turning drafts into actual stories—I know how they should look and feel and what they're about, but… yeah. A Bad habit? Probably some low-key social anxiety I've picked up over the years. Uploading anything regarding my own thought processes (including OC's) just stresses me TF out ^^;
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Anyway… I've been poking at this one drawing of Tahr’rys for over a year now, but I can't bring myself to finish it 'cause I suck at rendering in general; especially faces…
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Then there's the ref sheet of Relah—his, uh… she's a good friend of his. Don't ask them about it. They're way beyond complicated lol. I'll finish the sheet one day. There's still so much work to do... (Yes, she's loosely based on Ashara Zavros)
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Also, tossing in a text prompt I'll probably never write out, but I like it. It's kinda key to Tahr'rys and Relah's dynamic and how their story unfolds. The draft is heavy and moody, as most related to this character. It's a private scene in T's quarter aboard Neo's Freighter, en route from the Outer Rim to the Unknown Regions. Taking place around 32826 TYA / 26 ATC. 3627 Doomsday Calendar
Content Warning: themes related to trauma & mental health
Tahr’rys lived with Neongard for nearly a decade after being captured by the Dar’Manda bounty hunter—three years after his Jōhatsu from the Sith, in the wake of Zakuul’s conquest of the known galaxy's major powers. Over time, their relationship shifted from captor and captive to a working partnership, though not an entirely friendly one. The men spent a considerable amount of time in the cramped confines of Neo’s freighter, the Prancing Anvil, travelling through the galaxy, always on the lookout for a rewarding job. Eventually, the former Sith began helping Neo with his contracts, having nowhere else to go and no idea how to move on—or where to begin.
As fate would have it, Tahr’rys and Relah crossed paths during one of those missions—long after their fallout during their days with the Sith. This time, circumstances between them are different and they have managed to reconnect over the past few months. His years with Neo and everything T has endured since have changed him. Not exactly for the better, but she recognizes that he is less hostile, less agitated. Relah, by contrast, had escaped the Sith and returned to the Jedi, while T was burying himself in the Sphere’s demands. Last time she’d seen him, he had lashed out without warning, how one wrong word had set him off. Still unsure whether this new version of T is truly different, R somehow managed to get him to open up for the first time.
The two are seated on his L-shaped couch, separated by a small table but maintaining a noticeable distance. The quarter is cool, austere—sparsely furnished and seemingly barely lived in. Nothing lies around; only Tahr’rys’ leather jacket hangs loosely over a chair, while a few scattered items and his saberstaff rest on the desk. On the bed across the room lies a closed holobook. The overall lighting is subdued, with T’s vivarium on the wall casting a soft glow across their faces and the space around them. The air carries the scent of plants and damp earth, laced with a metallic tang and the faint smell of ageing machinery. It is quiet, aside from the occasional creak of the ship’s frame as it travels through hyperspace. Neo is in the cockpit.
T sits with his back to us, only part of his profile visible. Opposite him sits Relah, hands folded on her legs, listening intently to his words. Her posture isn’t entirely relaxed and betrays a touch of nervousness. Expressions shift across R’s face—concern, disbelief, sorrow and, occasionally, a faint smile. Her green eyes remain fixed on him. Throughout the scene, T sits motionless, talking with a low, even voice; neither gesturing nor shifting. His posture is stooped, head slightly lowered with his eyes fixed on the ground as if he’s directing his monologue to the floor beneath R, tho his words are undoubtedly meant for her. He speaks about his past, what happened to him, what he participated and what led him here. We can’t hear their conversation.
They remain like this for a long while; the former Sith talking and the Jedi listening. Then something he says causes an abrupt change. Relah’s face stills. The colour drains slightly as she blinks once, then again, trying to process what she’s heard. Without a word, she rises, prompting the first visible reaction from T. He lifts his head, eyes catching the light with an uncanny reflectiveness—an orange hue, like dull embers in a dying fire. R says nothing, but the following silence is louder than anything she could’ve said. As she turns away and steps aside, T shifts to follow her with his gaze. Raising a hand in a weak, imploring gesture, but letting it fall almost immediately. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t move as she walks past him, leaving the room.
Once he’s alone, the man lowers his gaze and folds in on himself, burying his face in his hands and closing his eyes. He doesn’t cry; he simply sits there, silent and unmoving. Whatever he had been processing comes to a halt, his conscious self shutting down entirely. Still, time moves on, and the old freighter hums steadily around him. Metal beams creak and a faint vibration runs through the floor as the Prancing Anvil shifts in hyperspace. The lights dim noticeably as the vivarium adjusts to a new cycle. Somewhere, a system resets with a soft mechanical chime—but Tahr’rys remains unaffected by it all, present only in form.
Some time passes before the bulkhead to T’s quarters slides open. Relah enters, carrying two cups of steaming tea. She sets them down on the table in front of him, speaking briefly but not looking at him directly. Then she pauses—something seems off. Her gaze shifts to the man on the couch and her lips form his name. No response. Her brows furrow. She repeats, but still, he doesn’t react. After a moment of hesitation, she reaches out and places a hand on his shoulder, giving him a gentle shake. Nothing. She’s never seen anyone—least of all this impossible person—in a state like this. For a few seconds, she just stands there, uncertain. Then she begins pacing the confined space, gesturing as she moves, before finally settling beside him. Even then, he doesn’t react.
Relah exhaled, frustrated, her eyes drifting toward the cooling tea on the table. After a while, she straightens to reach for one and takes a sip, then shifts slightly, sliding a little away from T to get a clearer look at him. He remains hunched forward, elbows on his knees, face buried in his hands—his body slack but not fully collapsed, still holding enough tension to keep from completely sinking in on himself. Her gaze lingers, lips tightening slightly as a realization takes shape. This had happened after she walked out. That much is clear. But whatever line she crossed, she couldn’t quite grasp it. There’s no way to reach him and nothing within her abilities might bring him back. Setting the cup back on the table, she leans in again—this time, resting her head against his shoulder, waiting for him to return.
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Finally typing out V’s profile bc I’ve been tormented by constant visions of Alectris’ Adventures and her bff Verinius. I blame @jukkaricity bc she never stops yapping at me while keeping the embers alive with her ideas ❤️🫂
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Verinius Sabelis, called Veryl by family and close friends (latter to his lasting dismay), is a Storm Mage prodigy who is brilliant and infuriating in equal measure. To strangers, he reads like a textbook Tevinter academic: attire immaculate, diction meticulous, a touch of smug hauteur and a proud claim to Tevinter heritage despite being born on a farm far from the capital in the backwater near Marothius, deep within the Hundred Pillars.
At his worst, the man can seem elitist and a little too pleased with his own cleverness, but give him a minute and the polish slips. He's whip smart but also easily excited, quirky and pedantic, often funny without meaning to be and happiest when fussing over odd facts. He is a walking library of stray trivia, magical theory and, yes, apples. His mind is always running at high speed, pushing him into spirals of overexplaining and fussy corrections. When noticing, he tenses and blushes, falling into an internal loop that makes everything worse.
Given time to prepare, Veryl reads as poised and unexpectedly dignified Mage through and through. Caught off guard, he runs on nerves and impulse, awkward and primed for the worst-timed remark. When fumbling and a woman is involved, he’ll retreat to pour his misery out to Alectris like a tragic lead. With friends he reaches for a quick fix, gets stressed and stumbles, but will eventually find a way to put things right. When feeling offended he retreats into a dramatic sulk, rather swearing he’d choose death than to take a step back.
But under all his eccentricities, Verinius stays fiercely loyal and disarmingly sincere. Raised as a privileged Circle mage, he once assumed the Magocracy’s order simply was the way of things. Time spent with the Veilguard unsettled that certainty, as living and fighting with them made what he’d once skimmed past at home impossible to ignore. He’s still tripping over old prejudices, but has begun asking better questions and testing what he used to take for granted. Slowly learning that titles say little, labels give way to people and that some of what he called normal exacts a heavy cost from others. It never came to his mind until now.
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Name: Verinius Sabelis Phalban
Nickname: Veryl / Vee
Race: Human
Gender: Male
Age: 32
Birthday: 23 Nubulis, 9:21 Dragon [Jukkaricity DA timeline]
Birthplace: Phalban Farm near Marothius, The Hundred Pillars, Tevinter Imperium
Height: 168cm / 5’6”
Mass: 55kg / 121lbs
Eye Colour: Light Olive Hazel
Hair Colour: Dark Chestnut Brown
Skintone: Medium-Dark Tan (scattered with moles and freckles)
Distinctive features: Missing left Arm, Cleft Lip Scar, Solid black tattoo left shoulder
More Tahr'rys Story Time with Relah – ft. Erin (again). So, this little idea about how terribly T handles something as basic as a cold first came up with @jukkaricity nearly two years ago. I even got a drawing from her showing him flopped in bed, with a full mood drop to 0°K. The actual prompt was floating around in our heads, but never got written down. @frauleiiin tagged me lately for a prompt generator game. It made me work through this brainfart. Took me a while to nail down T's and R's dynamic.
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This time we're aboard Tahr'rys' starship, the CS-C1, with Relah travelling with him for some time now. The scene has 1k words and is set around 32828 TYA / 28 ATC. 3625 Doomsday Calendar. I'm usually jumping around in T's timeline, so tagging the date is crucial—at least for me, to keep all the strings connected and stuff ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
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Tahr'rys doesn’t get sick. Not really. He’s had the occasional cold once in a while, minor stuff that passes quickly, nothing that puts him down for long. Relah catches the sniffles a little more often, but she bounces back fast, too. Both of them have solid immune systems. Normally. But somehow, during their last job, they managed to pick up a flu—and it’s a bad one. Relah thinks they caught it in that grimy cantina on Tatooine, from that half-dead Rodian resting on the counter. Tahr'rys insists it’s from this gods-forsaken dump they’re currently stuck on: Naos III, a frozen, backwater moon where everything smells like fish and spilled bootleg liquor.
Whatever the source, Tahr'rys got hit harder. His mood's gone from lousy to abysmal. The man doesn’t do sickbeds. He’s not used to his body giving out on him and has absolutely no patience for being ill. He won’t rest, claims he’s fine and keeps pushing—until he ends up face-first against a bulkhead, nearly passing out. Relah’s slightly better off. Not by much, but it seems to help that she’s Togruta. She can stay on her feet for a few minutes before her skull starts ringing like a starship collision. Her body feels like lead, but at least she’s more mobile. Tahr'rys, on the other hand, is mostly confined to his bunk, barely coherent with his fever spiking on and off.
The ship’s grounded. It hasn’t left the surface in days. Supplies are dwindling, fuel’s running low and the locals are too shady to trust, let alone risk making themselves an obvious target. The C1 is parked just far enough from the nearest urban complex to make a quick raid inconvenient, but close enough to keep the half-dead duo on edge. Just before the sickness hit, they’d closed a deal with the local Mercantile—one of the few functioning institutions on this frozen moon deep in Wild Space, about as far from the Astro chart as you could get without falling off the map. The payout had been solid. The timing, unfortunately, couldn’t have been worse.
While Tahr'rys was negotiating with the Mercantile, R had seen enough of the nearby hab-zone to know, asking for help wasn’t worth the risk. The place was coated in muck, with more ice than infrastructure. The buildings looked like they’d been slapped together during a crisis and somehow never expected to last. The shoreline wasn’t far, somewhere in between cold and decay. This area had a specific kind of grim to it. Definitely not the place you’d want to be stuck, especially not with a fever and a ship that’s missing both an astromech and a nav computer.
They needed help, but the Ex-Sith was blocking. Relah didn’t had names, just the one he’d muttered a few times since they split from Neo. That was the one she locked onto. T didn’t like it. Not even a little. Said he didn’t want to be seen like this. The flu had taken his edge, sent his thoughts sliding, but his instincts still fired. He kept tossing out half-formed reasons, trying to shift the conversation away from the call. From her bunk across the narrow corridor, R snapped back. The fever had burned away her usual patience. Every time he tried, she pushed back with quiet force, letting his fever-thin logic run its course until nothing was left to lean on.
He tried one more thin protest, but Relah didn’t even bother replying. She just looked at him; flat, brows raised. Dying isn’t a strategy and she wasn’t going to argue this again. Her eyes flicked to the narrow space between their bunks, weighing whether one solid kick would knock some clarity into him, or if it’d take two. And in that same look, she saw it land—that flicker of recognition. He was making a fool of himself. This wasn’t surrender. It was inevitability. So he stopped. Grudging, irritated and more worn down than he’d ever admit, she saw him reaching for the comm to call the only person guaranteed to pick up: Erethielin
He didn’t bring up Erin. No point inviting that headache earlier. She’s not someone you ask lightly. Sure, she’ll help, but whom? Small, chaotic, always five seconds from setting something on fire just to see what color it burns. All noise and raw instinct. She’ll come when he calls. That’s for sure. She won’t miss this. Probably showing up with popcorn to watch the show. And RJ in tow. Spite in a tiny chassis, always hissing static like a broken signal. Tahr'rys keeps quiet about understanding the droid. Some things are easier that way. Especially when it starts leaking madness, feeding Erin thoughts that don’t leave with her taking notes like it’s a grocery list.
He grunts as he manages to sit up, resting his back against the headboard of his bunk to make the call. Relah watches him from under her blanket. The connection builds and Erin picks up almost instantly. She smells the dead rat before he’s two sentences in. Grins through the whole thing. Says he looks like he got chewed up by an Oggdo, but she’ll be there in two days—with supplies. He cuts the connection, frowning at the comm, then turns his head toward Relah. She’s smirking. No—grinning now. His frown deepens. That cunning Ex-Jedi had outmaneuvered him. Again. Worse, she was right about calling for help. Stars, he knew he was talking crap.
He shifts, muttering something half-formed her way, but a cough cuts it short. He sinks back under his blanket, shoving the comm aside with a low grumble. On the opposite bunk, Relah lets out a sound, half snort, half choke. He glances back. She’s trying to bury her grin under the blanket, but her eyes glint, smug and obvious. He lets her have it. Just exhales, turns toward the wall and closes his eyes. One hand tugs the blanket up over his shoulder. She doesn’t know Erin. Not yet. But she will. And when things go south, he’s going to remind her that this was her idea.
I've seen these OC questions and thought I could try to answer them for T. I'd call it random curiosity and it was fun so, here are the results. Nobody needs to ask any questions as I love to answer them for myself lol It's not much but I think it counts as content and some of you are at least somewhat interested in what this Tahr'rys character has to offer & what kind of stupid ideas I can come up with
1) Does your OC have a voice claim, if so who?
The German voice actor Joachim Pütz (not only the voice of the German mSI but also the presenter of the ARD weather report for over 20 years lol)
2) Who's your OCs best friend? How did they become best friends?
He had some throughout his life. The Chiss Kitan from his days when he was with the Imperial Army and the Dar’Manda Neongard who found T when he was aimlessly wandering, lost in his mind. T believes that Kitan is the reason he was sent to the Sith and that Neo lied to him about his status as an outcast for years. The closest thing he currently has to a best friend is with the former Sith, Erin Akhalen. Somehow, the two have developed a type of friendship based on mutual antagonism and despite their frequent disagreements, neither would want to lose the other, although they would never admit it. Also, there's Relah, who has been with him for a long time and he deeply cares for her. They're more than friends but not quite a couple. His affection stems not only from their shared past but also because she is a constant beacon of light in his otherwise dark world—even when he couldn’t see things clearly. They were separated for years because Tahr'rys was too consumed by his own darkness, becoming delusional and accusatory towards her during his time with the Sith.
3) What song describes your OC?
Both, ”Assemblage 23 - Spark” and “Xenturion Prime - Embers” describe him astonishingly well.
4) What song describes your OC and their partner/love interest?
There are some, depending on the state of their relationship: “Rotersand - Speak to me”, “State of the Union - Stupid Song”, “ Dismantled - The Hero (Noonatac club mix)”, “Seabound - Castaway” and “NeuroticFish - Invisible” >.> their relationship is as troubled as is T.
5) Do you ship your OC with a Canon character? If so who?
Actually, it was Ashara, but I've decided to replace her with a character that better fits my needs. Otherwise, I had to reinvent the base idea of who she is. And that’s not what I was aiming for.
6) If your OC is in a fantasy setting, what profession would they be in the modern day?
Soldier, Sharpshooter, Non-Official-Cover Hitman, Freelance Contractor, Ethnobotanist and Healer.
8) What hobbies does your OC have? What do they do to unwind?
He enjoys reading high-fantasy novels, caring for his plants and tending to the tiny lizards that inhabit his vivarium. He’s also quite inquisitive and can spend hours trying to solve problems that have recently arisen. Lately, Tahr’rys has discovered a passion for fishing and Erin would say no better hobby fits him so perfectly. When he finds the time and nothing is pressing to do, he tends to seek out a spot and sit by the water for hours, patiently waiting for a fish to bite. Relah and Erin both swear that he barely moves a muscle while fishing.
9) How does your OC handle their physical health? Do they take care of themselves?
He does and needs to. The extensive chemical burn requires close monitoring and careful attention. It must be kept clean, moisturized and covered to protect it from excessive sun exposure. He also needs to perform daily exercises to maintain the flexibility of the scar tissue. Additionally, he pays close attention to his diet, especially when he eats something other than Nutripills.
10) How does your OC handle their mental health? Do they take care of themselves?
Over the years, Tahr'rys has been through a lot that has inevitably damaged his psyche. He has become a product of what he has endured—both self-inflicted and externally imposed. He’s painfully aware that he’s (not only) mentally unwell but is currently working with Relah to address the issues he has repressed for far too long. Both know this will not repair the damage that’s already done and T can only heal so much. He is also very stubborn about the whole topic and does not want to be pitied or patronized. He won't seek help beyond Relah; the Sith would only force him to his former role and he doubts he would have the strength to escape their influence again. The Jedi would try to turn him into something he is not. He remains extremely sceptical of all factions.
11) What was your inspiration for your OC?
The Sith Inquisitor from SWTOR - obviously - but he became a mix of many stories I like and what I find interesting or worthwhile to think about.
12) Does your OC interact with other people's OC? If so, who's their best OC friend?
Already answered in point 2 - it is Jukkari’s little gremlin.
13) Does your OC have a rival? How did it start?
Tahr’rys doesn’t care enough for others to have a real rival.
14) Who's a character your OC cannot stand! It's on sight when they see them!
Vask'ita'nagi! Tahr’rys becomes disproportionately aggressive whenever the topic comes up as he believes his then-best friend revealed that he was a Force user—a fact he didn't know by himself at the time he saved Kitan from being crushed by falling debris. It's best not to think about what would happen if they met in person. While Kitan holds no grudge against his old friend, Tahr’rys blames him fervently for everything that happened to him after his service.
15) Will your OC ever retire? Do you see them making it?
He did run away from the Sith to hide from their influence. They never caught him, tho the threat of being tracked down persists—even after 12 years. He was lucky the Empire faced other problems during his escape and had to undergo restructuring. No one misses a Sith that officially never existed.
16) How's their relationship with their parents? Are they alive?
Before T insisted on becoming a soldier, the three had a great relationship and his parents, Tahsin and Sahr’ra Nelubin, are still alive. Still, Tahr’rys is deeply ashamed of what he has become over the decades and is haunted by the knowledge that they were right all along—if only he had listened to them. They believe he died in action during his last mission as a soldier and Tahr’rys knows better than to disturb their peace with the truth of who he is now.
18) What are their pronouns? What would they like to be called?
T is a cisgender male - a random guy that goes by he/him but he doesn’t care about how he’s addressed.
19) What's their sexuality? What's their love language both giving and receiving?
Hetero oriented AroAce I guess? The rest is quite challenging, as T dislikes being touched—it's not out of fear, he simply prefers to avoid physical contact. He gives a lot, but it's more through his actions—it’s the attention he pays to Relah and how he interacts with her. He becomes less abrasive and very protective, yet he remains detached. What he receives from Relah is a mix of encouragement and challenge, paired with an understanding of his needs and the time he requires to sort things out.
20) If they fight, what's their weapon of choice?
He prefers his old military knife but makes use of his double-bladed saberstaff (teal blade with white core) if necessary. Tho T is a rather sneaky guy. If he doesn’t have to pull out his knife and can stay hidden, he tends to cause cardiac arrest in his enemies. He can’t cast full-fledged lightning arcs but quick bursts of lightning.
21) What song best describes their relationship with their enemy?
T doesn’t have real enemies but let’s take Kitan instead: “Silent Theory - Fragile Minds”
22) Fight or Flight? Are they a lover or a fighter?
Freeze -> Flight -> Fight. Tahr'rys is a thinker, not a brute force. Neither is he a lover.
23) Is your OC reliable? Can I call them up at two in the morning if I have a flat tire?
Tahr’rys is one of the most reliable people you could meet—if you manage to get his word on something, he will stick to it no matter what. However, coaxing a promise out of him can be challenging, as he is quite evasive.
24) Can they play any instruments? If so, what do they play?
Nope. He never showed any interest in music besides consuming it. He’s listening to stuff close to the genre “chillgressive” but only with headphones on and when nobody’s around.
25) Are they the kind of person who can't resist a good song? Can I catch your OC singing to themselves while they do the dishes?
Tahr’rys is one of those eerie individuals who makes hardly any noise. He's not much of a talker (huge understatement), so he doesn’t sing or hum either.
26) What flower do you associate your OC with?
Cichorium intybus, or Wegwarte as we call it in German, loosely translates to “waiting by the wayside.” There’s a little anecdote about a maiden who waited in vain at the spot where the flowers now grow. Her knight had joined a crusade and never returned.
27) What's their spirit tamagotchi? Or an animal you associate them with?
