|Sexual Orientation||Hasn't given much thought to that.. Undecided?|
|Gear||When in casual wear, she's often found in a powder blue robe with a black frock over it. When armored, she wears rather intricate dark leather armor, that looks as if it has been scorched a few times in it's past. She wields two daggers -- one silver with gold filligrees, the other made of black iron and traced with red intricacies that crawl up the blade. The former, Mercy -- the latter, Vengeance.|
|Behind the Mask|
Fedele has white hair that she often wears in a ponytail or pigtails. When her hair is down it falls to the small of her back. She's a smaller-framed woman, but lightly toned with muscle. Her features are rather sharp, and her deep blue eyes seem sunken in, shadowed by thick bags. She obviously has not seen much of sunlight -- she works mostly at night.
Fedele is fiercely loyal to her brother. She only wishes to please him. Anything he asks of her will be done, or she will die trying.
Fedele hated this place. She hated the waiting, the constant threat -- Brother could not be discovered. She shook her head, and plied her fingers gingerly over the hilt of her dagger. She chewed on her pale pink lower lip, and grimaced as she twisted the blade. There is nothing that could satiate her. The templars could not get too close, or they would find blood flooding into their lungs, and a dagger straight through their throat. She scoffed slightly, and gently pulled her dagger towards her, admiring the red that seemed to shimmer among it's fresh coat of crimson. She set down her blade once more, returning it to the heap of flesh restrained before her.
She withdrew her second dagger, moonlight dancing across the pristine silver surface. She twisted it about, felt the blade, felt the subtle trembling of the metal with the breeze that wafted through the small window. She ignored the whelps please for mercy -- after all, hers had gone unpunished. She narrowed her eyes, as her hand tightened about the blade. Mother, Father.. They had tortured her as such. Simply because she could not fling fire from her fingertips at a whim. No matter how badly she craved to, how much she wanted -- but, no. This was no longer about her. Her parents had made that perfectly clear. She did adore her brother -- he reveled in their parents' compliments while she lingered in his shadow, happy that the attention had no longer been on her.
And he could have left her in Tevinter, after it had happened and he had willed himself into a quest for power. Whatever power it was he did seek -- she did not care what manner of magic he craved. He was her family, her only kin, and nothing was going to rip them apart. She ran her fingers idly over Mercy's blade, and turned her cold eyes on the elf before her at last. This one had bled too much. She had warned him not to struggle. Now the game had to end.. How sad. She gripped Mercy with a delicate hand, and ripped Vengeance from her poor victim ruthlessly. As he howled out in pain, she dragged Mercy across his throat, he sputtered, crimson flowing from his mouth and bathing his neck, while blood ran rivulets down his chest and poured from all the little lacerations she had left. She thought, for a grim moment, that it was beautiful.
When he no longer moved, she no longer cared. She spun on her heel and marched out of the room. Something told her that dearest brother needed her.