Raphael Griffinhart

Character Name: Raphael Griffinhart
Age: 26
Sex: Male
Race: Human

Class: Warrior/Mage
Specializations: Spirit Warrior, Arcane Warrior
Favored skills: Dual-wielding swords, acts of violence in general.

Personality: "My word is my honor. My honor is my life."
The Grey Wardens that know of Raphael Griffinhart know, at the very least, of his reluctance - perhaps his refusal - to associate and fraternize with others. Among the Wardens, as among most social creatures, it is expected that everyone will want time to themselves every so often. But Raphael takes that want to a whole new level: he is spoken of, or spoken to, but never spoken with. His taciturn nature stems from distrust, a black betrayal that no one but that man that inducted him into the Wardens - a man now known only in the Wardens' histories and in the darkness of the Deep Roads - knows.
Instead of socializing with others, Raphael spends any of his free time in deep meditation or in deep training. He is usually found either in quiet, stone-like stillness, calming his mind and soul, perhaps even crossing into Fade-dreams and communing with demons and spirits; or putting his skills as a Mage, trained as a Warrior, to use, either in a training room or out on a field of battle.
But the most important aspect of his nature, and the one that his commanders most value, is his absolute, unwavering loyalty and commitment to an order. The warrior has always delivered results - even when ordered to work with others, Raphael has blended in with a group well, on a tactical level (aesthetically, his brooding nature makes him stand out like a sore thumb), knowing his place and using his experiences to achieve the best possible outcome: everything that needs to be dead, being dead and everything else alive. Once given an order, Raphael follows it to the absolute letter.
It has yet to be seen what would happen if he were given conflicting orders, or if he were ordered to "make friends".

Hobbies: "There is killing to be done."
Killing darkspawn (as well as anything else that would try and harm him), practicing personal combat, being vague and taciturn. Raphael is not a particularly ambitious man, in the same sense that everyone has ambitions. He has two goals - "kill darkspawn" and "protect innocents". Everything he does, therefore, is to achieve these two goals. Hobbies are generally a waste of time for someone with such focused sociopathy.

Background: "I am your sword."
Where did the man bearing the name of the near-mythical, now extinct mounts of the Grey Wardens come from? The histories indicate Anderfels. Recruited young and sent to Ferelden at word of the Blight, Raphael did not arrive until the moment of the slaying of the Archdemon, and felt its fall. But something about the man does not feel... Anders. He speaks the Fereldan language without flaw and does not act in a way that indicates any more piety towards Andraste than is usual - indeed, he has never been seen giving public prayer or tribute to the Maker's Bride. Then again, he speaks so little that few even recall what his voice sounds like...
But his outright refusal to associate with others, his pure, single-minded focus on killing do reveal something about his past, when taken into account his long journey to reach Ferelden simply because he was ordered to: first, few Grey Wardens in Anderfels care about anywhere other than Anderfels. Second, Anderfels needs all its Grey Wardens, as the threat of darkspawn is persistent and constant in a way that can only be rivaled by the Deep Roads.
Obviously, Raphael's presence in Ferelden is a punishment - sent away from home to die in a foreign land (if, indeed, Anderfels was ever his home in the first place). But a punishment for what? And that haunted look in his eye... what happened to him, to put such tired hatred in those eyes? None have ever tried to find out - most are willing to live and let live, others are perfectly satisfied with Raphael as long as he continues to be brutally efficient at killing darkspawn, and the rest aren't particularly keen in trying to converse with a wall.

Appearance: "Dress to kill."
A mane of steel-silver hair, usually unkempt, framing a face worn with bitter hatred and betrayal, aqua-argent eyes that, beneath the deadness, belie a world-weariness entirely unbefitting someone who is still so young - eyes that have seen things not meant to be seen by anyone, living or dead, human, elf, darkspawn, spirit, or otherwise.
Six foot and a quarter, Raphael moves with the lithe elegance of a man used to navigating a battlefield - instinctively noticing obstacles and going over them, or around them if that's not possible (or appropriate). He moves with confidence, born of surety of self - he is the only thing he can rely on. He moves powerfully, a brewing tempest in his being - he is a storm unleashing its fury without mercy or grace.

Weapons/Armor: "I am a weapon."
The panoply of a soldier born and bred, of a knight that fell and dragged himself from the brink of death, of a Warden that spurns the companionship of his brothers and sisters, is neither elegant nor elaborate. It is efficient and effective. Several blades visibly adorn his person: a long blade at his waist on his left, a short on the right. A third sword, also long in length, is secured to his back, its hilt emerging over his right shoulder for a left-handed draw. A knife, six inches long and single-edged, is sheathed neatly against the front of his left shoulder for an easy right-handed draw.
Clad in black and silver, the old colors of an old house no longer gracing Anderfels, a battle-tattered hooded cloak that shrouds the armory and armor beneath: a composition most unbefitting the rituals of mages and the parades of regiments, leather and chain and plate slapped together in a way that, although appearing to be haphazard and dangerous to the wearer, lets Raphael move the way he moves while protecting him as he does so. But not only does it serve to protect, but it serves to kill (as most things in Raphael's possession are wont to do): surreptitious spikes protrude three inches from his forearms at the elbows for lethal strikes, and similarly so from his shins. The knuckles of his gauntlets are reinforced, not simply armored, meant to deliver bone-shattering blows when necessary. Finally, a fearsome, faceless helm caps this frightful form, a smooth plate that barely conforms to something face-like in appearance, with several slits cut for breathing and two furious holes from which Raphael peers, surveying the world that his his battlefield. Three low crests rise from his helmet: one at the top, the other two between the top crest and the side of the helm, recurving to make for tremendously murderous headbutts.

Note: Pony by Fei. Sprite by Dragonis.


Background is old and temporary until I find good grounding. Maybe I'll put some money and time into DAI and convert Griffinhart into an invincible lightsaber.

-- Griffinhart