|Occupation||Being adorable, thwarting templars, rescuing mages|
|Gear||Claws and teeth|
|Behind the Mask|
Bright blue eyes sucked in the dim, flickering light of the Deep Roads, situated neatly in the center of a mage's robes. Obviously the most comfortable of places, Ser Pounce-a-lot was able to both protect his squishy food source and watch the fight proper, illuminated by multi-colored flashes of lightning and healing. He was ever vigilant, ever prepared, so when a genlock cam lumbering forward to assault his mage, Pounce's tiny paw shot out, claws lancing across the creature's nose and drawing blood, even as his mage fell back in alarm.
He mewed helpfully. He had drawn first blood, and now the silly darkspawn was dead. The man nearby with the large sword was entirely unnecessary, of course. As is the yelling from the sword man to his mage, and the violent hugging and the salty, delicious mage tears.
When they leaft the Deep Roads, the man with the sword did more yelling, and his mage did more bone-crushing hugging and weeping. Pounce did his best to admonish his mage, placing a tiny kitten paw gently to the mage's nose, smearing it with dried darkspawn blood. This only served to make him cry harder.
Mages were so delicate.
Pounce decided this was a lost cause, and wriggled to get back into the robes, mewling a command that they had best get on with it, that there were more things to kill spectacularly. He found himself suddenly indignant when the mage drew him out into another hug, and then handed him over to a stranger.
This. This was not done.
The mage worshipped him. The mage swore fealty to him every day! This was some cruel joke. Any moment now, the mage would come back.
Any moment now.
...The mage left.
This...this was just not done.