The Storm Coast calls to Hallenon. Stark and powerful by the sea, vibrant and uncompromising as it rises inland, it is a place of strength. A storm rages before him, churning the sea as he watches from a high, rocky promontory. Brown hair turns black in the rain, pulled back from his face and plastered to walnut skin. He stands alone, scouts and companions ensconced in tents or on watch beneath windswept trees. It is a Keeper’s job to see, to remember, even when he is among the last of his clan.
Mana flares within his skin as a flash snaps into existence far offshore, splitting the night with its brilliance.
In an instant, the bolt of lightning shatters a tall stone column beyond the cresting waves. Arcs of power skitter across his body in sympathy. Storms have always been as much a source of magic for him as a thinning Veil is for any mage. These are his elements, the wind and the lightning. Hallenon lets loose on his aura and the field of energy flares around him, rippling as the storm continues to rise in strength, encircling him in a veritable cyclone of power.
A deeper explosion sounds from far behind him as a bolt shatters a lone tree standing high on a cliff. Rarely has he seen so violent a storm, even along the Waking Sea. This place has earned its name well, and Hallen closes his eyes to let the rain pound on his upturned face, thoughts drifting to why he is here.
The Inquisition already has a strong foothold on the Storm Coast, conscripting mercenaries and rooting out Venatori cultists for the past several months. Far from safe however, the Inquisitor - his sister Elisara - sent himself and a small group to deal with roving bands of darkspawn that refused to be kept down. She had wisely chosen a group that would neither give him grief as a mage, nor be swept under by the vicious, deadly creatures from the bowels of Thedas. Warden Blackwall is truly the one leading them, both in close combat and in methods of keeping themselves from succumbing to the Blight. Cole’s speed and unusual nature likely make him the least vulnerable of anyone besides the warden himself, and Krem and his small group of Chargers are practical and seasoned - valuable traits for dealing with chaos.
Arms crossed, he stands as an immovable silhouette of power as the storm sweeps inland, quieting to a steady rain.
Dark forms catch his attention on the beach below, creeping out from a cavern to the south. Three are small, hunched and skittering down the stones. Genlocks, from Blackwall’s descriptions. Two are taller, broad-shouldered with larger weapons. Hurlocks, presumably. The dark night seems to hinder them no more than it does himself, and they begin moving along the shoreline.
The cyclone tightens around Hallenon as he draws in the latent power of the storm. Arcs flash across his outstretched fingers as he gathers electricity between his palms. Energy builds, and he draws his hands apart until miniature bolts flash angrily from palm to palm. Rain drips from his brow as he focuses on the largest of the hurlocks, sweeping his right hand high. Muscles tingling as the force races through him, fingers tightening into a fist as he brings it down and---
Even from this distance he sees the creature spasm and fall to its knees, its fellows scrambling from the bolt’s impact on the earth. Winds whirl abruptly in the opposite direction as he rises, left hand spread wide, fingers shedding sparks. Down again, fearless on the edge of the cliff.
The bolt sears through the sky, splitting into arcs of death and pounding the entire group into a faintly smoking ruin.
Hallenon stands, rolling his shoulders. His heavy wool coat steams slightly, drying despite the rain. No more darkspawn creep onto the stretch of shore beneath the storm mage’s gaze.