Starling

moira fontaine

STAND YOUR GROUND, THE DAWN WILL COME

With the easy grace in which she orchestrates when playing the Game, the Inquisition agent, Starling, once known more commonly as Moira Fontaine, could only ever be imagined as being Orlesian. However, unknown to most, she was born in Ferelden. Her father was an Orlesian nobleman but he chose to wed a Ferelden noblewoman, a lesser bann of the Bannorn, and then stubbornly kept his family remaining upon Ferelden soil despite the Ferelden’s baring no great love for Orlesians, nor vice-versa. However, Moira was orphaned at the young age of nine. When the Fifth Blight occurred, neither of her parents nor their family land survived.

Her only remaining living relative was her father’s aunt; Comtesse Madeline Fontaine, and so Moira was sent off to Orlais to live with her. Comtesse Madeline was not a cruel or a completely unloving woman, but no sooner had Moira stepped beyond the foyer’s door it was decided that “the Ferelden” within her would be “forced out.” Once, Moira had sought fun and adventure in games of imagination and make-believe with stable-boys and kitchenhands, conducting raids upon the kitchen at a whimsy. Now, her days were spent only in the company of books and instructors, her hands kept busy with learning how to handle musical instruments and thread-and-needle. Upon her twelfth birthday, Moira was sent to a finishing school in Val Royeaux.

Ordinarily, a girl from Ferelden would have found such an atmosphere to have been … challenging. However, thanks to Comtesse Madeline’s determination and care, Moira spoke and carried herself in perfect Orlesian fashion. Already, she wore a mask.

She had been fifteen when she had first learnt about bards. Hers was not a remarkable situation. Orlesians romanticized the lifestyle of a bard, and many a young noble saw it as a game to dabble in the profession. When a couple of Moira’s friends decided to do the same, convincing Moira to join in took little effort. She found herself a patron in Duke Phillipe de Freyen, who saw that she was trained accordingly. For some, perhaps learning how to lie flawlessly, even when under duress, or to manipulate another as a puppeteer would with a puppet, might have felt strange or challenging. But not for Moira. Once again, she had Comtesse Madeline to thank. With the exception for memorizing the names, the methods of concocting and the uses of various poisons, her bard training was quite similar to her daily lessons under her aunt’s sharp gaze.

And being a bard suited Moira. She could charm even the dourest of noblemen; even sink a blade into a clumsy player in the next heartbeat, without shifting her mask. Duke de Freyen was most pleased, his social stature noticeably rising as Moira took out his competitors and rivals. Yet, even Moira at times struggled to ignore the growing stains upon her hands. The Grand Game complimented the Orlesian aristocracy, for their movements upon the board were restricted to the elegant exchanging of words. Bards served as their blades. And the more that Moira clashed and sliced against her fellow steel, gradually chips and scratches began to show upon her person.

She ignored it. Convinced herself that the killing of acquaintances - people whom she had liked - her friends – paled when compared to the benefits of being a favoured spy. And, after all, the time for regrets had long ago passed her by. She had immersed herself far too deeply. For her, there was only the Game.

She kept to the dance. After completing her education in Val Royeaux. After the Mage Rebellion. And even throughout the Orlesian Civil War. At Court, it had seemed that she was far away from the chaos that had engulfed Thedas, from the strange rifts and the demons that were rumoured to continue to pour out of the Fade and into her world. But that was wrong, as the events that took place within the Winter Palace quickly showed. Worse, however, was the fatal fumble on Moira’s behalf. By the end of that night, Duke de Freyen was counted among the dead, and Moira was without the protection of her patron. Unmasked, she would have quickly been torn apart within that vipers nest. So she acted on the only plan that she could think of: she joined the Inquisition.

Accepted within the ranks of their spies, Moira was given the alias of “Starling.”

That was eight years ago. Starling does not miss being Moira Fontaine overly much.


♪ Despite being called “Starling,” singing isn’t her forte. She can carry a note, but the elegance in which her fingers waltz across the strings of a lute is her true charm. As such, she is rarely without her handsomely carved lute, which Starling wears against her back in the common fashion of a minstrel. Tiny summerstone bells, attached to silk brocade ribbons, are knotted around her instrument’s throat. If asked, Starling makes a habit of providing a name for her instrument … but one that changes upon every occasion. In truth, the lute is nameless.

♪ Daggers are Starling’s preferred weapon, often coated in various poisons, and which she can wield dexterously, acrobatically and with swift efficiency. Her favourite daggers are of a ribsplitter schematic, forged from silverite. Again, much like her lute, both daggers are nameless. Starling’s preference also implies that she is ambidextrous.

♪ Languages have always interested Starling, and she has learnt the method of speaking in a manner devoid of any traces of an accent. But, more-so, she also knows how to form various accents when speaking, and knows more than the common dialect, allowing her to blend in among various societies. Orlesian, Antivan, Rivani, Ander, Tevene, and even a few phrases in both dwarven and elven. Since the Inquisition’s involvement in the Dragon’s Breath fiasco, Starling has been determined to pick up Qunlat. She’s learnt a few phrases; however her accent still requires some perfecting.

♪ Due to what is required from an Inquisition agent, Starling is capable of moving among the commonfolk and toughing it out in the wilds, but her preference and speciality is playing among the vipers of Thedasian aristocracy. The outdoors are just so … grubby.

[b]LILY COLE[/b] as [i]starling[/i]