The Templar with Issues
|Residence||Kirkwall, Free Marches|
|Specialization||He’s been training to become a Templar since he was young, but recently he's been having nightmares. Dreams of a dark cave that smelled of blood and rotten flesh, the sounds of claws scrapping across stone echoing around him, and atop a broken pedestal, with black blood dripping from its jeweled rim, sits a golden chalice that sings to his very soul...|
|Gear||As is mandatory he wears the standard templar armor and gear. His weapon of choice is the two-handed broadsword issued by the chantry.|
|Behind the Mask|
Jacob’s a good 6’3”, with broad shoulders and a hard, chiseled body. He knows he has to stay in shape if he wants to keep swinging swords at the ripe age of fifty, but he isn’t overly buff. He has just enough muscle to suit his height and build. One isn’t just able to swing a four foot long sword overnight you know.
He’s handsome enough, but his best feature is his deep-set pair of blue eyes. His nose is straight and unbroken, surprisingly. His hair is a light brown and somewhat unkempt (He absolutely hates getting it cut. The Sisters would always nick his ears) which curled and waved around his face and accented his deep blue eyes, making them look clearer, sharper. He has an open, honest face, the kind that makes you want to talk to him about anything, and a warm and friendly smile. He laughs as easily as he does smile.
He has very large hands, rough to the touch and they are covered in calluses from years of intensive training. His two most noticeable scars are the thick scar between his index finger and thumb- from when he grabbed a bandit’s sword and stopped it from striking a comrade’s head- and the wide burn mark stretched across his left side, from his hip to his stomach. That one is the oldest, back from before he was found by the Chantry. He cant remember where he got it exactly, but sometimes he dreams of a monster hidden in the shadows who spits up flames, and a dark roomed that stank of old blood. But that was only a dream, right?
Some would call him naïve. As a kid, he truly believed that good would always triumph over evil. To this day, he is still that same boy who played pretend hero behind the chantry and watched the knight’s ride through the town with awestruck eyes. He honestly believed that what the Chantry did was the Maker’s will, and strived to do good. He became a Templar because he likes to protect people. It was in his nature, and the role suited him.
But despite him being a Templar, he steers clear of fighting if he can avoid it. Even a common brawl among his fellow comrades, you’d find him off to the side sitting it out. He’s even had people punch him full on in the face and he wouldn’t hit back. He’s been teased about it, been called a pacifist (among other things). Most of it he’ll take it in stride, even make a joke about it. But no one can deny his competence with a blade once they see him fight. In battle, he’s quick and efficient. Some would say even violent. But he does his job, when it got right down to it, and he does it well.
And then there are his bad nights. They come every now and then in circles. Usually he knows when he’s going to have a bad night, but sometimes it just creeps up on him unexpectedly. Its almost like an illness really; his skin gets cold and clammy, but he feels feverish, and his head pounds like someone pressing a boulder on his skull, its hard to breath, and his stomach wont stop churning. Sometimes it can last for an hour, maybe five minutes. Most of the time he hides somewhere to wait it out, so that no one can see how pathetic he looks. On the rare occasions he gets it so bad that he’ll crumble right there where he’s standing, scaring whoever he’s with. After he took his vows, he was able to blame it on lyrium withdrawal.
When he was younger he used to wonder what that feeling burning in his gut was when he had his bad nights. As he got older, he was able to recognize the feeling. It was guilt. It surged over him in waves; drowning him, suffocating him, devouring him. Things he’s never noticed before, he’ll suddenly start to perceive. He’ll see the blood on his hands. Hear the distant screams in the background. Smell the stink of death on his skin. His guilt washes over him, and makes him remember. It reminds him of all the people he killed, and the sickness inside him. He enjoys it you see. Killing. Its like he can’t help it. To see his enemy’s face twist in agony or pain, it fills him with a kind of quiet amusement. And it scares the hell out of him.
My name, as you should know young man, is Sister Penelope. Yes, I was the one to find Jacob when he was no more than… how old is your oldest boy? Seven? Jacob was about that age. No, I didn’t find him abandoned outside the church doors. Have you been listening to that old beggar down the street again? Hmph, well, you should be. I was in a small village somewhat a way’s from the Frostback Mountains. Well, dear, they needed the Chantry there. Those poor villagers were hit hard that fall by a tribe of hillmen. Dirty savages. Was Jacob from one of those tribes? Andraste, no. That boy was the sweetest child you could ever meet.
I found him…sixteen years ago. My, where does the time fly. To think back then he was still hiding his face in my skirts. And I hadn’t had so much grey hair. What? Oh, yes. As I was saying. I was out collecting some herbs in the forest that day when I heard a faint coughing sound behind me. I thought it was a raccoon at first! I went to look, behind this old fallen tree, and near had a heart attack when I saw this little boy curled up on the ground. I remember it clearly. His face was flushed with fever, and there were deep scratches all over his face and neck. I found out later that he had more scars, and a horrible burn covering the left side of his body.
I cannot imagine who would do such a thing to a child.
For an entire week I watched over him. He did wake a few times, but his mind was addled with fever. I wiped many a tear from his eyes, calmed him when he started to weep in his sleep. And the nightmares. Each night he would wake up, screaming of dragons, and monsters that turned to ash. Demons? No. That was just the fever talking. There was no magic in him. He did keep mumbling about a Father…. Cauldron I think? No, Kolgrim, that’s it. Oh I don’t think so. He also mumbled about a Father Eirik. And he said it too much like the children do when speaking of Mother Yackle. With both intrigue and a weariness fit for a mouse to an owl. Could you imagine? A Revered Father!
Of course we kept him. He was another child made orphan by those heathen savages. …I can read that look in your eyes, young man. Hah, I thought so. I did keep him close to me. I was the one who found him, and I was there when he finally opened his eyes. Oh, and such beautiful eyes he had! Like two little sapphires gazing up at you. Yes I know what a sapphire is. You don’t? Oh dear, I’m terribly sorry. It’s a… a very dark blue color. Darker than that, dear. Yes, like the deepest part of the lake.
What? No, I was the one who requested to move to another village. Of course I wanted to help those people, but the Maker knew my heart was set on raising that boy. And that meant I had to get away from that village, and pray that the Maker kept those villagers safe. I never did. It burned down a few months after we left. There was nothing left to go back to. Why? Well, I felt that it was… unsafe. Accidents were beginning to happen. Animals were being found around the village; cats, dogs, and other small creatures, butchered into a grisly mess. People were beginning to point fingers. No, it couldn’t have been Jacob. That boy is too gentle to do such a thing. But I knew what fear can do, especially in such a place plagued by ruin. So I left, and took the boy with me.
What else? Nothing. We went to Amaranthine, and that was where we stayed. I performed my duty to the Maker, and was able to keep an eye on him, and had the privilege to be there for his childhood. He was such a good boy. I knew Jacob was destined for great things. So young, and already he was adamant on becoming a Templar. At first he just wanted to protect me from the bad men, but soon he wanted to protect everyone. He always watched out for the other children, even the older ones. He grew up a good boy to become a fine young man. I was so proud when he took his vows. Yes, I was sad when he was assigned to Kirkwall. The Free marches are so far away. But I did not question it. What happened was the Maker’s will. If He wanted Jacob in Kirkwall, then so be it. Oh, I’m not worried. He promised to write me as soon as he arrived.
It was nice talking to you too dear. May the Maker watch over you.