[Medium Sized Model - 25mm Base]
[Presupported with LYS files in 32mm & 75mm Scale]
[No Hat Variant Included]
Cocksure and headstrong, Sir Davion has given himself the moniker “magebane” a title which earns him an eyeroll from many of his peers, as they are each considered to match that title. Still, Sir Davion exemplifies to many the absolute prowess that most Inquisitors possess, with him able to move with speed and grace like a catfolk of the Southern Lands, and cut down his prey like one was well. Though his proficiency in battle is admired by his peers, his attitude certainly isn’t.
Born and raised in the slums of Arvere, Davion, Son of Braxas, was born to nothing, and like his father always said, would be doomed to die with nothing. Their family was one of miners, and a long lineage traced back to the Second Era would show slim deviations from their occupation of destiny. Most of them seldom lived past thirty-five summers, and Braxas was no exception to the rule, passing when Davion was just fourteen. Thus the torch was passed to him as the eldest in Braxas’ progeny, his mother and six siblings relying on him for a pittance of a meal each night, yet even the slightest setbacks could tip the balance of this fragile life. Pickpockets were an unfortunately common sight in Arvere’s slums, those desperate enough to put their lives on the line for a coin, yet bolstered with delusional grandeur that they would never be caught, nor injured in their parasitic trade. Davion fell victim to them many times, though the final straw was broken after his wages had been stolen three nights in a row, leaving him and his family with not a coin to his name, he promised himself he would never allow it to happen again.
Afternoons that were spent draining flagons at the local inn were replaced with toil and labour, sculpting his body from bone to brawn with regimental and spirit shattering training. He had often watched athletes training at outdoor gymnasiums as a child, and though his own regiment was amateurish and paled against theirs, his goal grew ever closer. A contingent of his colleagues joined him, all awed by the discipline and fortitude of the young man, whilst others lauded him a fool working himself to an early grave like this father. Yet Davion did not relent, and among the body he built, he and his companions sparred, learning the best techniques for street brawling they could to fend off the pickpockets and thugs that plagued them.
Inevitably, Davion put his newfound skills and strength to use. A young boy near his same age had snatched Davion’s coinpurse from his belt, yet had ran no more than a handful of paces before he was pounced on by his pursuer, pinned to the ground and beaten senseless until his world dimmed and the lights in his eyes burned out. Nobody mourned for the urchin, and Davion felt not as though he had taken a life, but instead saved those of his family, guaranteeing them food for another day. Quickly, the miners of Arvere garnered a reputation as savages and thugs, though it ensured pickpockets steered clear of them forevermore, lest they want their brains scraped off the pavement. Life continued like this for nearly a year and Davion was perceived as a ringleader of the miners by many in the slums, yet merely garnering a reputation does not put food on one’s plate, and he resorted to other means to continue feeding his family, mostly extorting the same gangs of pickpockets that once preyed on him and his colleagues.
Complacency and overconfidence would prove to nearly bring about his downfall, however. After one of his men was entangled with a squad of Inquisitors, Davion intervened to save his life. The first threw a punch at him, which Davion deftly sidestepped, dislocating the man’s shoulder and tossing him to the ground. The remaining two drew their blades, charging towards him. Knowing the futility in fighting, he turned heel and fled, disappearing into the winding streets and labyrinthine alleys of the slums. While one was swallowed by a crowd, the other was able to corner him, ordering his surrender, to no avail. Davion instead charged at him, feigning an attack with a dagger before gripping the Inquisitor’s swordhand, prying the hilt from his fingers by twisting his wrist in two revolutions. Readying to flee once more, he was halted, the Inquisitor with the dislocated shoulder had caught up, and a flintlock pistol was pointed at Davion. Compliments were passed to him by the sergeant, citing that he has more vigour than most soldiers in their ranks. The sergeant offered him a choice: go to the stockades and suffer ten lashes and months or years in prison, or join the ranks of the Inquisitors, rather than waste away the rest of his life in the mines, making barely enough to scrape rate carcasses onto his family’s plates.
Davion took the offer, excelling at all physical exercises in the academy in Grimhelm, but struggling with intellectual exercises, as well as forging friendships and alliances. He still rode the wave of confidence and assurance that had been built in him during his time among the miners in Arvere, though here was a runt from the slums, and such attitudes were usually only reserved for the most prestigious nobles in the Inquisitors. Whatever attempt they made to humble him failed, which indeed only watered his ego, further alienating him from most of his new colleagues. The last icing on the cake was dubbing his own moniker of “magebane” a rather redundant title, seeing as all Inquisitors are intended to be the bane of mages. He knows it draws the ire of his comrades, yet for him it’s entertainment, and until one of them can throw him onto his back, he will continue to taunt and irritate them.
Yet beneath his bravado, a more complex truth lies. Davion fights for neither King, country, nor the Inquisition, but the family he left behind. The coin he sends back to them ensures their lives now are leagues better than what they endured when he was only a miner, and it is his hope that his siblings will lift themselves to better lives, not compelled to work and die a mile beneath the earth. His life is now spent in Grimhelm, stationed as an officer within the Inquisitors, overseeing much of the rebellion’s epicentre. His path now teeters between duty and self-destruction, his duplicitous personality and deeds ever driving him towards one end of the spectrum, while his memories of family struggle to pull him to the other.
