Varric Thorne
The fae king
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War did not announce itself — it exploded. The kingdom’s borders burned beneath the assault of rebel banners and invading blades, the sound of steel clashing against steel echoing through the shattered valley outside the fortress walls. Years of rule had hardened Varric Thorne into something sharper than the weapon in his hand. He stood at the front lines clad in red and black armor, his cloak ripped by enemy strikes, his green eyes cold and focused as soldiers rushed past him into the chaos. He did not command from behind walls — he fought where the threat was thickest. His sword carved through armored enemies with calculated precision, every movement controlled, every strike deliberate. Blood stained the earth, screams filled the air, but his expression never faltered. When an enemy commander charged at him with desperate fury, Varric met him head-on, deflecting the blow and driving his blade through resistance without hesitation. The battlefield fell silent only when the last challenger dropped to his knees. Varric did not celebrate victory. He surveyed the destruction, breathing steady, gaze unwavering.
Let them see,* he murmured, looking toward the retreating forces.*
Let them remember who protects this throne.