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Dismas grew up in a remote, no-name village within the county of Oakhaven, born to a man good with his hands and a woman good with her words. When he was twelve, a terrible illness swept through the village, claiming the life of his father and rendering his mother sickly. He'd already learned enough from his father about family and work ethic to understand that it was his responsibility to take care of his mother and little sister from then on. Despite her lingering illness, his mother continued--and continues to this day--to serve as a voice for their village, helping to lead their people. As he grew older, ready to set down his own path, this duty to watch over those he loved limited his options, denying him the chance to become a proper knight as any oaths of service he would be required to swear would keep him from his family for extended periods of time. So, he turned to odd, short-run jobs which would see him returning back to his village quickly enough, usually guarding caravans. When other, more lucrative--and less strictly legal--opportunites presented themselves, allowing him to make more silver and spend more time back home? How could he say no. If he was able to pick up a trinket for his momma and sister on each run, all the better. He'd been running with the same crew for years when they fell on bad luck, most turning up dead or disappeared in the sort of way that sometimes happens when the Inquisition gets involved. Rather than stick around and try to find work after that fiasco, he finally took off to forge his own path, trusting his mother's caretaking to his little sister. Arriving in Arx, he's signed on with the Champions, ready to train and to prove himself, ready to make something better than the life he left behind.

Tall and wiry, Dismas walks with his head held high, a square set to his lean shoulders. His long, angular face tells a story, one of a fighter who's had to work for every scrap he's ever earned: full lips naturally turn down at the corners; his prominent nose bears a scar where it was clearly broken; his chin juts out often in habitual defiance of his lot in life. He maintains a clean cut to his dark brown hair, often pushed back and away from his face, his direct green-eyed gaze unhidden.

He's got a confident swagger, like he knows who he is and what he's worth and doesn't have to prove it to a single soul. Until he's on the field, then he is down to prove his capability with every punch, every swing of his sword, every refusal to stay down when knocked on his ass. He fights with a fury and ferocity that's only matched off the field by his love for his family. Off the field, he'd rather enjoy himself, though those paying attention might catch a habit toward moderation, unwilling as he is to let indulgence get in the way of what he wants. There's a quiet discipline beneath his nonchalance which might lead one to believe he's signed up with the Champions for more than just silver and glory, like maybe he actually believes in the honor he's paid to fight for.