The first five diary entries following my particular journey in Ferelden. These entries are from a one adventure following only certain choices made by my character (myself) when working my way through the game Dragon Age: Origins, produced by Bioware. This game is an 18+ in the UK. I would recommend playing it to any fantasy gamers, and it is excellent to provide material for practically any fantasy story.
Extract from the Diary of Sarunara Surana, Harrowed mage of the Fereldan Circle of Magi
Written on my journey to the battlefield of Ostagar
People have often complained to me of the distances between the cities of Ferelden, but growing up in the Circle Tower with Jowan and the other apprentices I knew nothing of travel. My last journey was at the tender age of five, when I had barely received my elvish clan tattoos, and was ripped from my family, my magical talent marking me to join the Circle, be it my wish or no. I have no memory of that time.
At camp near Denerim
Since Jowan’s flight from the Tower after our discovery of his forays into blood magic – my part I am not ashamed of – I have travelled many miles to Ostagar, Duncan guiding me, to battle the Darkspawn, into the wilds, twice, meeting Flemeth, witch of the Korcari Wilds, and her headstrong daughter Morrigan, and then to the village of Lothering, where the Grey Warden I now am saw persecution. Finally, I made it to Redcliffe, with my great friend and companion Alistair, the two of us the last Grey Wardens of Ferelden. We fought our way through the undead horde of demon-controlled nightmares, and saved both Arl Eamon and his son Connor from his wife’s folly. For the Arlina, unknowing, had hired an apostate to teach her son to conceal his magic. A maleficar – Jowan, no less. My feelings on this one are clouded. I know he may die, although he is, and always will be, a good man.
Yet the Arl remains ill, in a coma. He may die soon if not healed, and Loghain will win, for without his support we will surely fail to overthrow the King’s murderer. We have been to Denerim, the greatest collection of lives on the continent, but I fear we are too late. The Brother we seek has left for a village known as Haven, in the far-off Frostback Mountains where the dwarven city of Orzammar lies hidden. His notes show that he believes they, in that one village, guard the Urn of Sacred Ashes, the prophetess Andraste’s earthly remains, the only thing left that may cure our ailing Arl. We are supplied. We leave tomorrow.
After the ambush
We have been on the road what feels like months, but can only be weeks. We have travelled so fast, pushing ourselves to the limit. Today we met the first sign of Loghain’s intervention. He sits across the flickering fire from me now. Antivan Crows! Who would have thought Loghain would hire such a prestigious group of assassins? Noontime today, a woman came fleeing up the road towards us, screaming at us of a bandit attack, that her caravan were dead. Honourable Grey Warden as I am, I led the group into the trap. Blood flooded the road and an elaborately armoured elf stood on a barricade of overturned carts. The ensuing battle took all of ten minutes, although I sense he did not put all his skill into this fight. Why?
The groaning of the wounded blew over the battlefield as we, the four of us, approached the form of our would-be killer. Alistair’s sword was ready, viper-swift, to strike our enemy’s unprotected throat, but I stayed his blade. The man was conscious, and we needed answers. He turned out to be quite sweet, between you and me, but occasionally that glibness gets on your nerves. How can anybody be on the floor with cold steel at their throat and still crack a joke every two seconds? We knew already, but confirmed, that he was sent by Loghain, and the Crows are likely going to send another to finish this job.
But, on a more personal note, I discovered a few things about the Crows I doubt anyone else knew and lived to tell. They recruit young, we know, but he was sold to them at the same age as I was when the Circle took me. I know this is the truth, my magic tells me so. Their training is brutal. I hear tell now of the rack! My new companion has also revealed a little of himself. I know his mother was a Dalish elf, not a city ‘knife-ear’ like my own, and his name is Zevran. My mind says no, but my heart yearns to know more, since the only way he can leave the Crows and avoid their vengeance is to stay with us, protected, untouchable, perhaps for a long time indeed. Although in the corner of my eyes I catch Alistair’s glances, and the weight of jealousy (does he feel that way about me?) and distrust in them is immense. No matter, only time can tell.
In the heretic village of Haven
We are in Haven. Leliana has left our party to rest in camp. She is injured after our fight on the road, but my heart beat a little faster that Zevran has taken her place on our team, for now. His lockpicking skills should be far more useful here than the prayers of a devoted Chantry priestess. The villagers are most strange – they refuse to answer any of our questions, the shopkeeper is dull and lifeless. Most strange of all, they have a High Father, when everyone knows that in Andraste’s name all must be High Mothers, as the maker himself wished. We must get to the root of this.
Upon a most dreadful discovery
Oh, horror of horrors! We entered the back room of the small store. Its keeper died trying to stop us but we knew… One of Arl Eamon’s knights, a searcher for the Urn, just like us, slumped on an altar of stone, his throat slashed, his life drying on the blade that did the job! Haven, no, hell-hole! We must stop this, soon. We walk for the temple, I believe the answers will become clear there.