Doodles and Dreams

2026 Outfit Re-Design

Face and Body References and Background

2026 Background and Lore

Terrible photos of him

Hero Forge Mini version

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Jerran's Characterization Sheet

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Rooks Roost AU #rrau

Archived Rook!Jerran's Background and Lore

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Personality, Dialogue

Characterization Cheat Sheet

Influences

6 Characters that Inspire Jerran's Personality

Rook.TV

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Writing Examples:

Jerran panicking at the Hand

Jerran telling a Story

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MASTERLIST OF Timeline WRITINGS (RRAU and Others)

Rookfest25

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RRAU: Jerran x Eleanor

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Kyra Masterpost (Jerran's dead fiancee)

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Music Playlist

On Youtube because I find songs like it's the early 2000's. No particular order--- much like Jerran, it’s best to hit the "mix" button and let the chaos wash over you.

Tribute Trailer (YouTube)

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Writing Prompts (Misc)

Companion Quest AU

Rook to Rook Fake Banter

List of answered Writing Prompts here

2nd list of Writing Prompts here

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Gorgeous Art/ Mentions by others

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Gregory Thorne (other OC)

Templar Ford Weston

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Other Rook Sketches

Sketch Prequel, Sketch #1 , Sketch #2, Sketch 3, Sketch 4, Sketch 5, Sketch 6

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Art Summary

First of all, the contrast between the two -- the First Warden is dressed in highly ceremonial armor that requires at least one attendant to dress him. It's polished, imposing, and extremely expensive -- probably custom-made exclusively to the First Warden's specifications. Ignoring the exaggerated fantastical elements, the man is basically a tank.

And then there's Jerran, wearing scraps cobbled together to form some sort of armor, probably scavenged from dead opponents. The leather armor really doesn't provide a lot of protection -- his arms are bare; maybe there's a few layers beneath the tunic, but judging by how tight it is, there's not much.

Jerran is the epitome of an arrogant, young mercenary. In the First Warden's eyes, Jerran is slipping back into the person he was before joining the Wardens. Basically the opposite of everything that First Warden believes and stands for -- and believe me, the First Warden knows Jerran's history.

First Warden: Your Report, Junior Warden.

Putting Jerran back in his place, reminding him that he's nothing but an upstart Warden newbie who needs to respect his superiors. Just because Jerran is on "leave" doesn't mean he can escape the Wardens' authority. He's no longer a higher-rank mercenary leader.

First Warden: You destroyed a building.

Jerran: To seal off a darkspawn tunnel to the surface.

First Warden: In defiance of orders.

Jerran: The orders were wrong, ser.

In the First Warden's eyes, Jerran is shortsighted and can't see the big picture (In my canon, Jerran's village was the ruse for a bigger battle and a necessary sacrifice to divide the Darkspawns' forces. Jerran's actions nearly cost them the battle). Jerran's impulsiveness gets people killed -- this arrogant prick acts as though he's still a mercenary leader and can do what he wants without backlash.

And when Jerran comes to report on some Elven gods supposedly escaping due to interrupting a ritual -- Andraste's blessed Knickers, this is the worst situation possible.

After the FUBAR situation of Adamant Fortress, all the First Warden can see is the Grey Wardens' reputation suffering because of this idiot. The Grey Wardens can't afford any more blows to their reputation. And now a Grey Warden unleashed the fucking Blight that they're trying to eradicate?

Events that defines your character's past

I've done this before for Jerran, but this song fits so perfectly.

You're gonna burn your lips In this unnatural kiss You'll feel the heat in your mind And know the madness behind You're gonna cut own your path Here in the aftermath Gonna dance in fire as the pain goes numb In the final kingdom

During the second Inquisition, Ford learns that his best friend and fellow Templar, John Dawson, became a Red Templar to take revenge on the Chantry.

Although he is not the one to kill his friend, Ford later encounters another Red Templar who attempts to persuade Ford to join the cause.

This event changes Ford into a colder, harder version of himself -- how can he trust anyone if even his best friend fell to temptation?

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How your character sees himself:

This version captures the darker, orchestral feel better, but it's AI. 🫤

There lived a certain man in Russia long ago He was big and strong, in his eyes a flaming glow Most people look at him with terror and with fear But to Moscow chicks he was such a lovely dear He could preach the Bible like a preacher Full of ecstasy and fire But he also was the kind of teacher Women would desire

I think what makes Ford terrifying is that he truly believed that he did the right thing when he was a Chantry Templar. Even now, he really believes that he protected both mages and the general public by keeping the Mages in the Circles. He wouldn't hesitate to cull those that are deemed dangerous.

It's not that he doesn't have sympathy for both sides -- he will protect a mage if they are summoned to assist outside of the Circle and public crowds attack them out of fear that they will turn into a demon.

But it's a chicken and egg dilemma: fear and distrust of mages leads to mages becoming vulnerable of demon possessions that kill people. The appearance of demons and abominations justifies having the mages locked up.

This conviction makes Ford a perpetrator of this oppressive system and a killing machine who would wipe out an entire Circle if ordered (While he was not at the Annulment of Dairsmund in Rivain, he would have willingly participated if he believed them to be a threat).

Ford finally starts to see flaws in his thinking after his best friend Dawson turns into a Red Templar and then Commander Cullen Rutherford and Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast reveal the truth.

However, it isn't until he journeys to Northern Thedas and sees what mages are like without Southern Chantry Circles where he slowly begins to realize what he's done.

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Their closest romantic relationship:

Diamonds are forever Hold one up and then caress it Touch it, stroke it and undress it I can see every part Nothing hides in the heart to hurt me

Ford keeps his heart closely guarded: partly to protect himself from Desire Demons, but also because he believes that falling in love is a weakness and opens one up to becoming vulnerable. He's also afraid of what a potential partner would think if they truly knew the "real him."

He enjoys a fling, now and then. But there's nothing personal behind it.

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Their closest platonic relationship

Been to Middle Earth, do you speak my language? Your elf ears don't need explainin All I really need for you to do is...just ... please Talk nerdy to me

Ford and Dawson met at the Templar monastery when they were children and became inseparable. Their friendship helped them survive the often-harsh training and stringent demands placed upon them. Dawson's more light-hearted personality balanced Ford's seriousness.

In a modern-day setting, they'd be making dorky videos like this in college and being general goofballs. (Ford would be such a nerd).

That part of Ford died after Dawson was killed in the Mage-Templar war.

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A major fight scene

No lyrics to this one. Just epic music where I could imagine Ford cornering his prey and fighting against a demon-possessed person.

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End credits song

No You'll never be alone When darkness comes, I'll light the night with stars Hear the whispers in the dark No You'll never be alone When darkness comes, you know I'm never far Hear the whispers in the dark

Jerran

🧡5: Is it easy for your OC to step out of their comfort zone?

For Jerran, stepping out of his comfort zone is getting along with nobles and following societal etiquette. (He would have absolutely failed at the Winter Palace quests in DAI). Previous to the Veilguard, Jerran was very bitter and hated the nobility with a passion for several good reasons. 

Meeting Eleanor changed his mind. @a-mumbling-nerd

It’s still not easy for him to go to the balls and endure the inane Games, but now he tries his best to behave.

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🩵1: Does your OC get stressed easily? Are they cool under pressure or are they easily made anxious?

The more anxiety that Jerran feels, the more blasé and snarky he gets. He usually stays cool under pressure in the moment; his one thought is to survive and get back home to his loved ones.

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🖤 6: What does your OC have nightmares about?

Jerran often has nightmares of being trapped and helpless to rescue others in a variety of situations. The Blight is a recurring nightmare where he’s either turned into a Darkspawn and sent on a rampage to destroy things, or he’s fighting Darkspawn at his last stand in the Deep Roads.

Other nightmares are a mishmash of traumatic events in his life – things he did as a Midnight Star and later as a Grey Warden; being trapped in a Venatori Fort pre-Veilguard; escaping a Necropolis lab after Weisshaupt, etc.

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🤍6: Does your OC idolize their past?

No. Jerran is ashamed of his years with the Midnight Stars and tries to hide it as much as possible. There are parts of his past that will die with him and even his loved ones only know a few stories from that time. 

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🩶 6: What is onne of your OC’s happiest memories?

One of Jerran’s happiest memories is snuggling with his mamae next to the campfire and feeling her run his hands through his hair as he fell asleep when he was little. While it’s fuzzy, he remembers the warmth of the flames, the slightly soapy scent of his mamae after she did the dishes, and her voice singing Dalish lullabies over him.

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Tarian: 

❤️ 4: How important is the concept of strength to your OC?

Tarian: *confused* Strength is important… otherwise how can you lift things? 

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🧡5: Is it easy for your OC to step out of their comfort zone?

No, it is extremely difficult for Tarian and takes all of his energy. Oftentimes, he is trying to concentrate on fitting in and responding appropriately, so he often doesn’t bother to look pleasant or smile. 

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🧡7: What is your OC's favorite season?

Warm, sunny summer days that isn’t too hot or too cold. Or cold winter days where he can curl up by a fire if he isn’t forced to go out into the world.

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💚 7: How adaptable is your OC? Are they open to change?

Tarian unconsciously adapts to whatever the situation requires by following a script – whether he read it in a book or observed it. He also keenly watches other people to see how they react before reacting himself. 

If given a good reason, then he is willing to change. But someone has to explain it to him first, otherwise he’ll refuse out of pure stubbornness.

------ 🩵1: Does your OC get stressed easily? Are they cool under pressure or are they easily made anxious?

Tarian gets anxious and stressed when there isn’t a script or a scenario for him to follow. As someone who was basically a lab experiment, he learned about the world by imitating others or reading about it in the books allowed to him.

So if Tarian knows he’s supposed to act like a “Grey Warden” (charge into battle, improv, staying cool under pressure), he can put on that mask and act accordingly. As soon as the mission is over, he has to retreat and recover. It’s one reason he was extremely crabby at Weisshaupt; he had no place for him to recharge. 

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🩵7: How observant is your OC and how much does it affect them? Are they clueless or nearly paranoid?

Tarian watches people constantly in an attempt to fit in or memorize their interactions. Oftentimes, this can make others very uncomfortable. He can also appear paranoid since he rarely trusts those around him.

 It’s not until he reaches the Veilguard Lighthouse community that he begins finding his own personality and learning how to be himself.

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Ford

❤️2: What aspects of a person – appearance, personality or otherwise – are attractive to your OC?

Appearance: Ford is attracted to long, dark hair, whether silky or curly. He likes the way it shines in the light and he can’t help but run his fingers through it. Dark eyes with long eyelashes are also a bonus. He also tends to gravitate toward female or feminine leaning appearances.

Personality: Someone intelligent and resourceful. Ford’s mind is easily bored, and he wouldn’t be able to stand someone who is vapid and helpless. While he enjoys rescuing “damsels in distress” once in a while, he will get impatient if he feels that he has to babysit them constantly.

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💚1: Does your OC get jealous easily?

That is a tricky question – Ford doesn’t easily settle down since he constantly travels and he’s often away for months at a time. So many times, he may have a fling in a town or someone that he’d visit whenever he’s in the area.

However, if Ford feels that he found “the One,”  and is willing to settle down with them, he is extremely jealous.

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🧡5: Is it easy for your OC to step out of their comfort zone?

Ford is regularly out of his “comfort zone” since he tracks down apostates, abominations, and rogue Templars throughout Thedas. Storing knowledge and knowing even minute details is important to his work, so he often asks questions or explore different areas to learn more.

He had the hardest time stepping into the Fade since it challenged his faith and shook a lot of his beliefs.

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🩵1: Does your OC get stressed easily? Are they cool under pressure or are they easily made anxious?

Ford is very cool under pressure since he regularly encounters abominations and horrific situations as a Seeker and a former Templar. He’s actually more anxious when things are going well. 

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🩵2: What brings comfort to your OC (person, place, object, etc.?)

9:23 Dragon

The Nursery at Weston Hall, Lake Calahed, Ferelden

Commanders, Lords, Knights, Footsoldiers. Sherringford smiles happily as he stands little toy soldiers carefully in rows, perfectly distanced from each other. One commander. Two Lords. Three Knights, Four mabaris. Five foot-soldiers….

“What on earth are you doing? That’s not how you play.”

Melvin. Sherringford ignores him, hunting through a tin toybox for six mages. He needs to go all the way up to ten to make things perfect.

“That’s not how the formation goes. Didn’t Father teach you anything?” 

Sherringford tunes him out as he finds two mages and sets them up. Now, where is the girl with the large chest and long hair? 

A wooden toy sword drops in Sherringford’s lap as a boot pushes the tin box away. “I wasn’t done,” he protests. 

“Stand up. It’s time to play.” Melvin, a tall thin boy with a hawkish nose, high cheekbones, and hair the color of freshly-turned dirt, takes up the stance of a duelist. “You’re the Orlesian chevelair.”

“Why do I have to be the Orlais chevelair? You made me do it last time!” Sherringford protests, refusing to get up. 

Melvin sneers. Eight years older than Sherringford, Melvin Weston, firstborn of Ser Arthur Weston and Olivia Townridge Weston,  towers over the boy; he already passes their nursemaid in height. Of course, she’s a knife-ear on the smaller side, so that’s not saying much. Melvin steps forward, kicking aside the toy soldiers that Sherringford set up.

“Master Melvin,” Hilde, their nursemaid interjects, her long ears twitching nervously, “I don’t think —”

“Shut it. You’re just here to make sure we’re still breathing. Nothing more.” Melvin pokes Sherringford in the side with a wooden sword of his own. “Or Sherry here will cut off your ears. Just like the real chevelairs.”

“Don’t call me that. I hate it.” Sherringford reaches for the toys and yelps when his brother steps on his fingers. “And leave Hilde alone.” 

“Sherry, Sherry, quite contrary, How does your garden grow?” Melvin grins. “Come on, Sherry. Fight me.” He moved his foot enough for Sherringford to snatch back his hand. “What, the so-called prodigy too scared?”

“Leave me alone.” Hilde always said that ignoring Melvin would make him stop. Eventually he’ll get bored and walk away. Sherringford bends down to pick up the soldiers, his fingers aching and stinging. A lock of dark brown hair falls over eyes glazing over with tears.

Hilde yelps. Sherringford looks up to see Melvin deliver a blow to the cowering elf’s back. “Stop it!” Panic sends Sherringford’s voice two octaves higher. Scrambling up, he snatches his discarded sword up.

“Now we’re talking.” Melvin grins. Hilde whimpers, her arms shielding her head. Sherringford can already see bruises darkening her arms.

There’s no way that Sherringford can win at this point in time; hours of training with Melvin taught him that well. Melvin is too tall and has too high of a reach. Sherringford circles around. What would make him stop?

What does he care about? Mother and Father’s approval. The Highland girl. A candle on the nightstand next to Melvin’s bed catches Sherringford’s eye. There. Dropping the sword, he darts to Melvin’s side of the nursery and snatches up letters from under Melvin’s pillow. Letters from Sara Highland, Melvin’s beau. Melvin reads them every night.

Sherringford begins to slowly rip the letter, holding it up high.

The shocked look on Melvin’s face…. “What… what are you doing?” Melvin freezes as the sound of tearing paper echoes in the room along with Hilde’s sobs.

“Stopping you.” Sherringford feeds half of the letter to the flames. “Leave me and Hilde alone.”

“Hilde and me,” Melvin automatically corrects. “All right, all right. Just give me the letters. Look, Hilde’s fine. Just say you tripped over a shoe or something, yeah?” he said to the nursemaid.

Sherringford considers his brother. “Back away from her. Then I’ll give you the letters.” When Melvin hesitates, Sherringford lowers the second half of the letter over the candle.

“Fine, fine.” Melvin releases Hilde and walks toward Sherringford, his hand outstretched. “I’ll leave her alone.” 

When Sherringford reaches to hand Melvin the papers, Melvin grabs the younger boy by the wrist and yanks him to the ground. Sherringford gasps as his head smacks against the wooden boards. Tears fill his eyes as Melvin’s glacial eyes – similar to his own – meet his gaze. 

An elven maid stumbles into the room, her eyes widening at the sight before her. “M–Master Sherringford. Your mother wishes to see you in the parlor.” 

A long agonizing moment passes as Melvin glares at the maid before he gets up, but not before thumping Sherringford on the head for good measure. Sherringford shakily climbs to his feet; the maid tries to smooth the boy’s crumpled clothing before they escape downstairs.

The parlor always awes Sherringford as he enters – it is here where the adults mingle and gather, talk business deals and sign the papers that decide Melvin’s and his fates. Unfamiliar vases and objects from far-off places line the tables; one artifact cost hundreds of gold, Sherringford once heard a manservant whisper after a clumsy maid broke a vase. 

Here is where Melvin and Sherringford are tested, lined up like small dolls in front of dour relatives and eager parents who wish to show their offspring’s prowess. A recitation of Chantry verses, or a demonstration of pianoforte skills on the great instrument in the corner. 

As the maid escorts him in, Sherringford takes his place in front of a sofa where his mother and an armored man sit. A sword with flames is emblazoned on the man’s chest; it looks vaguely familiar.

“Sherringford,” His mother, a tall, severe woman whose jewels and finery can’t quite hide the disdain that she feels for birthing two sons and no girls, speaks and Sherringford turns toward her. “Sherringford, you have been chosen by the Templars to serve them. You’re leaving tonight. Your bags are being packed as we speak.”

Leaving? Sherringford swallows hard. “Yes, ma’am.” His head aches; asking any further questions is not worth a smack on the head later.

“You may say goodbye to your mabari and your horse.” A slight smile cracks the mask that she normally wears. “This is a great honor, son. Your father and I are so proud. You are dismissed.” 

Don’t mess this up for us. He dares one question. “And Melvin?”

“Melvin will be staying here to take over the family business.” She nods toward the door. “Go.”

As Sherringford bows and turns, a grin spreads across his face. 

His sword out, Jerran swiveled around to see humanoid shapes slumped against the wall. Some had horns; others were no taller than his waist. All lay in twisted, unnatural positions like discarded dolls tossed by a petulant child.

A familiar tremulous voice came from behind. “Mister?”

The kid. Jerran had almost forgotten. Turning, he saw the Child huddled in the middle of the dusty room. They visibly cringed at his attention. What had the Demon said? Protect them. 

Part of him wanted to shake the kid for leading him into that trap like a stupid sheep. But the Shadows had attacked them as well; maybe they were innocent despite the part they played. “You have two seconds to explain what you’re doing here,” he snapped. “And what are you?”

They flinched, their dark brown hair obscuring their eyes. Wait. Brown hair? Jerran squinted and realized that the Child’s appearance looked slightly different with no hood. A dull Tevinter-styled tunic wrapped several times around a thin body that barely reached Jerran’s elbow; Jerran recognized the style from wandering through the Minrathous Docktown alleys. A gold enchanted bracelet dangled from a slender wrist that hugged narrow shoulders as the Child huddled. Scuffed boots shuffled against the floor, sending dust flying to coat their dark grey pants as they whimpered, “Sorry. I’m sor —” They stopped, tilting their head. 

Jerran paused. There. He heard it – a distant cracking coming from… Behind. Shit. Jerran managed to throw himself in front of the kid to shield them right before the wall behind him shattered. Something hard struck him on the back of the head and the room faded.

“Mister, mister, wake up, please.” The pitiful voice came from below him.

What… what was that? Why did everything hurt? He slowly became aware that he was dangling, with his feet hanging in the air. The runes ached, but they no longer drained from Jerran’s limited lyrium reserve; they must have deactivated when he was unconscious. Something wet and coppery trickled from his mouth and Jerran raised his head, only to feel a sharp claw dig into the softness of his neck.

“Welcome back, worm. Enjoy seeing your mother again?”

That bastard. Jerran struggled and told the demon where it could stick its pointy fingers. The hand wrapped around his neck shifted.

“Perhaps the worm needs a reminder of who is in charge. Who has the power.” 

A claw pierced through Jerran’s corazinna armor and pinned him to the wall as though the metal-backed leather, thick wool, and chainmail were merely thin paper. A numbness spread across his chest. He choked as blood dripped onto the Demon’s hand.

Another hand reached behind him and tapped the rejuvenation rune on Jerran’s neck, activating it. “Always searching for more abilities. How is that working for you, little elf?”

The rejuvenation rune began healing torn tissue and severed organs. Jerran stared dazedly at the Demon’s gaping maw as it leaned close. A headache began to throb in his temple.

“You compromised your health and your morals trying to get ahead. Admit it – you’d make a deal with the doctor or a demon itself if it meant you got the perks. What ability did you want?” A twist of the claw, re-opening the wounds. “Fade-step.”

“That… that’s not true,” he slurred. “I wanted…” What did he want? “A cure from Blight.”

A cackle and another twist. “Is that what you tell yourself?”

The meager amount of lyrium-induced mana ran out; the rejuvenation rune hummed under his skin as it siphoned from his blood. Jerran sagged against the Demon’s hand. The thing meant to heal him was rapidly killing him. He would have laughed if he had enough breath. Hey, Doc, didn’t think that through throughly, didja?

At first he thought he was hallucinating the singing. Then he heard it again: a distant voice was tremulous, but clear: 

Tel'enfenim, da'len 

Irassal ma ghilas 

Ma garas mir renan 

Ara ma'athlan vhenas 

Ara ma'athlan vhenas

Never fear, little one,

Wherever you shall go.

Follow my voice--

I will call you home.

I will call you home.

Home. He had to get home to Ellie, to everyone he’d missed in the other timeline. Or if he couldn’t, he’d take this godsdamned Demon down with him.

Jerran's head slumped forward on the Demon’s hand as it dug into his chest. With the last bit of willpower, he activated the strength and endurance runes, hoping the Demon wouldn’t notice. 

Good. The Demon was too busy cackling and monologuing about power. 

Forcing the rest of his body to remain limp, Jerran slowly raised his shaking left hand. Fingers slick with blood and sweat fumbled to draw his beloved bollock dagger from its sheath; when he had a steady hold on the weapon, he waited for the bastard to draw near again

Hot, foul air blew on Jerran’s neck as a strand of saliva hit his cheek. “It seems that I’ve won, little worm. You’re going to be a delicious, delicious body to wear after I heal it.”

Now. Using the strength and endurance runes, Jerran brought up his left hand – not many expect to be attacked from that side – and stabbed the creature straight through its gaping mouth and out the back of its fucking skull. “FUCK YOU.”

Its scream cut off mid-shriek as Jerran continued jamming and twisting the blade up to the hilt. Rotten threads lining its face burst along the seams of its gray and decaying skin. The tall figure swayed.

He felt the claw pinning him to the wall loosen just a second before the demon exploded. 

With nothing to hold him up, he fell. His back and head slammed into the ground, sending the grey ash flying. 

Jerran coughed as the particles filled his mouth, mixing with the blood trickling down his nose. The darkened ceiling above him blurred and dimmed. A sharp, stabbing pain throbbed in his temple; the runes were busy trying to repair the damage. 

A futile attempt. He needed sleep. Please, Maker, just let me sleep.

 A small hand rested briefly on his forehead. The Kid. Jerran opened his eyes to see the Child kneeling over him, stroking his hair. A hood – a dispassionate part of Jerran’s mind observed that the hood was part of the tunic – now covered their face.

“They failed, you know. The others.” The Child’s voice had changed. Quieter. More controlled. They swept their arm in the direction of the bodies slumped against the wall. “Congratulations, you won.”

Jerran’s laugh gurgled in his throat. Aunt Morella was going to kill him for getting injured. Again. “Dunno about that… kid,” he rasped. Maker, it was hard to stay awake. “And who are you?” A pause. Jerran sensed rather than saw the Child ease the hood back. He caught a fleeting glance of familiar amber eyes, bronze skin, and dark curly hair. “You’re… you’re…”