AN: This story is a bit of an experiment, and as such, it could go on indefinitely or I could give up on it after a month. I'll do my best, but temper your expectations. This story is an ongoing solo game I'm playing using the official Dragon Age RPG and Mythic GM Emulator. It's sort of like an actual play converted into conventional prose. This means that I only know more of the story than you, the readers, because I have a backlog. Hopefully it works out!

Dramatis personae

Tarsian Aventus: A member of the Tevinter lower class of mages, the Laetans, he took to traveling Thedas after the deaths of his parents.

Garrick Joyse: The scion of a wealthy Gwaren merchant family, his parents were able to use their social connections dating back to the occupation to gain him a spot in the University of Orlais, usually exclusive to nobles.

Katari: A Tal-Vashoth mercenary, she is known for her honor and ethical code, but also her brutality in combat.

Revashiral: A former elven slave in Tevinter, he has spent almost a year fleeing further and further south, but the end is now in sight.

Syora: A beautiful but enigmatic Dalish elf.

Korinne Tettingen: The daughter of an Ander Grey Warden and a student of the University of Orlais.

12 Cloudreach, 9:29 Dragon

Val Royeaux, Orlais

The Silver Lion was a tavern in Val Royeaux. To all appearances, it was nothing special. It made a profit and was free of violence despite its location in a bad neighborhood near the elven alienage, but that was its only real unique feature as far as its patrons were concerned. To them it was just an ordinary bar, maybe even a good one, but one that could easily be replaced by a dozen others in the city.

This night, however, was a bit different. This night, destiny – or chance – had other plans. This night the tavern would host individuals of extraordinary potential and set them on the path to greatness.

Of course, none of the Silver Lion's denizens knew this was the case that night. But in the future, some would reflect on it and realize that this was the moment it all began.

"An ale for me and one for my friend here, serah."

These words came from a young man, no more than 25, in perfectly understandable if undeniably accented Orlesian. The man was slim but lithe and athletic. He had dark brown hair cut short and a beard clipped to a similar length.

"Do you plan on actually paying for your drinks today?" asked the bartender. If the bartender had a name, he never went by it to any of his patrons. Some tavern rumormongers claimed that even his wife called him "bartender". Others didn't even believe he had a wife.

"I always pay my debts. Eventually."

"Mmhmm."

Even if he didn't act like it, the bartender knew Garrick was a good kid. He may have been Fereldan, but at least he didn't have the arrogance that characterized so many of the University of Orlais's students. Or at least not as much of it. He began pouring out two ales.

"How I enjoy hearing other people talk in languages I don't understand," came the dry remark of Garrick's companion.

He seemed a bit older than Garrick, perhaps in his early 30s, though it was hard to tell because he had shaved his head. He was also clean-shaven, though he had at least a day's worth of stubble. He was tall and thin, with pale skin and bright, piercing blue eyes. He was dressed in a simple black cloak and had a wooden staff tied to his back.

"We've been here twice before, and I explained it. He doesn't like to be addressed in the King's Tongue, or any language besides Orlesian."

"But he does speak it?"

"As far as I'm aware."

"And he has no problem with it being spoken in his presence?"

"Look, I'm not inside his head. I just buy drinks from him. When someone gets to be that old, you have to accept a lot of quirks from them. I had this great-aunt who-"

"Drinks done," the bartender interrupted, sliding two mugs of ale across the bar to the pair.

"Most of his patrons actually live here. It's not so much of an issue for them," Garrick said.

"Well, I don't."

"Obviously. All I'm saying is it's not as big a deal as you're making it out to be."

"Fine, fine, whatever. Now, I believe you said there was a reason you invited me here. Something you wanted to talk about?"

Garrick nodded and seemed to think for a few seconds.

"All in good time, my friend from the land of the magisters."

"Please don't call me that."

"It's true. Ah, but whatever. Like I was saying, we'll get there. This city is full of Orlesian pricks –" As an aside, he said to the bartender in Orlesian, "Present company excepted, of course – and pigheaded nobles of all stripes. This is one of my escapes. The conversation will still be there in five minutes, so let's just drink a bit."

"Well, if you're paying, I can't really say no."

"I'm paying for the first round. No guarantees after that."

"Still better than if I came here alone. Now, if we're not getting to the point here, what were we talking about last time…"

Garrick raised his glass and Tarsian clicked his against it.

"I think you were mentioned the girl you've been seeing," Tarsian continued. "Something about writing your parents about her. Did anything come of that?"

Garrick looked like he felt a bit awkward at this question. He quashed his discomfort with a gulp of ale.

"Not yet," he admitted. "I just have a weird feeling about the whole situation. My parents aren't exactly die-hard pro-Fereldans, and I wouldn't call them overbearing, but still…"

"Yes, well, if you're looking for relationship advice, look elsewhere. I've heard bartenders are good for that."

Around that time, an elf began approaching the pair. He was clearly tipsy, but still had all his physical and mental faculties together. The elf was powerfully built despite his short stature. He had a short dagger sheathed to his hip – the only weapon an elf was allowed to carry in Orlais. The sharp features of his face were framed by a long scar running along the left side and marred by the fact that his nose had clearly been broken at least once before. His unkempt dark blond hair reached his shoulders. He wore an enormous pack on his pack that clearly looked full to capacity.

"You."

The elf was pointing a slightly shaky finger at Tarsian's back. The pair of humans turned around incredulously.

"I've been watching you since you got here. Your accent, your appearance, your bearing… You're a Vint, aren't you?"

Tarsian raised a single quizzical eyebrow.

"I'm afraid I don't understand the question.

"A Tevinter, you ass!" the elf responded angrily. "I can practically smell one of you at this point."

"And what of it?" Tarsian asked, his eyes narrowing in annoyance.

"Does the name Almadrius mean anything to you?" The question was asked coolly, without anger, but with a clear edge to the voice.

Tarsian thought for a moment.

"There was an archon by that name a millennium and a half ago. Since then, it's been reused as a name, probably currently held by a magister or two, but I never knew anyone with it. Was there a reason to your question, or do you just enjoy harassing strangers with trivia?"

"Huh."

The elf seemed relieved, but also somewhat disappointed.

"He's trying to kill me. Or at least, I can only assume he is. There aren't too many Vints around here. I hear one talking while I'm there… well, I can't take the chance on coincidences. I have to see if he's found me. But I suppose not."

The elf turned on his heel and began to walk back toward his table.

"Excuse me!" Garrick said in a raised voice. "Are you going to apologize to my friend and me for making false assumptions and waste our time?"

The elf stopped but didn't turn back around.

"No, I'm not. Have a problem with that?"

"I do, actually. Look at me when I talk to you!"

"No."

Garrick stood up from his seat and took a few steps forward when the bartender's voice interrupted him.

"There's no fighting in here, gentleman."

After several seconds of glaring, Garrick relented and told the elf, "I imagine you don't speak Orlesian, so let me tell you. I'm stopping because of him. Not you."

Without another word, the elf started walking again and sat back down.

Around this time, the tavern door opened forcefully, and a large, muscular grey-skinned woman stepped through. She was tall enough, probably close to seven feet, that she had to duck to get through the doorframe. She had a pair of curved horns about a foot long and white hair tied into a short ponytail. The woman scanned the room with slightly oversized yellow eyes.

"Who do I need to talk to to get a drink in this place?" she asked the room.

After a long, silent moment, a barmaid nervously raised her hand.

"The, ah, the bartender does not like to be talked to in the Trade Tongue. I can get your order taken."

"Wonderful. Find the biggest mug or flagon you have in this building and fill it with some really cheap, shitty beer. Then bring it to me."

"Yes, of course."

The woman walked over to one of the few empty tables in the room and sat down. Everyone adjacent scattered to fill whatever gaps were in the rest of the room or just left.

Ever since she walked through the door, Tarsian's eyes had been locked on her. He had a look of focus, bordering on anger, on his face.

"Are you all right?" Garrick asked.

Tarsian finally broke his gaze and shook his head.

"She's Qunari."

"Well… obviously. Bad blood there? Or what?"

"Something like that. I'd never seen one before, but I've heard a lot about them. Not just the propaganda they teach in school. I have friends and family… well, had family, in the army. They've killed a lot of my countrymen. But you don't usually see them down here. Maybe a scout… or a spy."

"Well," Garrick retorted, "unless you're planning on murdering her in the middle of a crowded bar, there's nothing either of us can do about it."

Garrick motioned for a refill of their drinks.

"Excuse me," came an unusually accented voice from behind the pair.

With a sharp sigh, Garrick turned around in his seat to look at the new figure addressing him. He saw a gorgeous red-haired elven woman with complex designs adorning her face. Garrick recognized them as the vallaslin blood tattoos used by the Dalish, a very unusual sight in Val Royeaux. At least it explained the accent.

"If you're with the other elf who tried to talk to us, tell him I don't care. I've calmed down and now I just want to drink in peace."

She laughed softly.

"No, not at all. I've been watching you. You're some of the most interesting people in here. And interesting people are exactly what I'm in need of right now."

Garrick scoffed and rolled his eyes.

"Are you trying to solicit me or recruit me? For the latter, I'm a student, not a mercenary. For the former, I'm taken, thank you very much.

The woman nodded dismissively and turned to Tarsian.

"And what do you think of this?"

"I've been known to do an odd job or two from time to time to make ends meet. Usually not from random people who approach me in a bar, but, ah…" He shrugged. "It would depend on the details."

The woman shifted to once again address both of the pair.

"Let me tell you something. Everyone has an angle, and my story has something for all of them. You want money? A chance to be a hero? Glory? Well, maybe not so much the last one. But I have a lot to offer."

Garrick regarded her skeptically.

"With all due respect, serah, even if we were interested, why are you recruiting for your quest by approaching random strangers in a tavern?"

"I have my reasons," she responded noncommittally.

Garrick cast an aside glance to Tarsian.

"I'm sure you do. Maybe not good reasons, but it's a rare individual that acts without any reason whatsoever."

"Is that a no?" she asked.

"It's an 'I'll think about it.' Are you in a rush?"

"Well, yes and no. But I won't need you to make a decision in the next few minutes. Here, take this."

She drew two slips of paper from her pocket and handed one to each of Garrick and Tarsian.

"Keep it in mind. That's all I'm asking."

The woman slunk away as Garrick examined the parchment. On it was written an address, the words "Noon tomorrow (13 Cloudreach)" and a one-word signature, "Syora".

"Right," Garrick muttered. He turned to Tarsian and said, "Well, it's been long enough. I think you're going to like this…"

Meanwhile, the elven woman, Syora, was on the other side of the tavern, walking toward the elf who had confronted Tarsian earlier. He was sitting alone at a table with a bottle of cheap wine and half a dozen shot glasses.

"Hello there. I've been watching you," she said to him in Orlesian.

He raised his gaze just enough to see her.

"I can't understand a word you just said," he responded in Tevinter.

She just stood and stared at him for a few seconds.

"We all speak the Trade Tongue here. Unless you don't, in which case this is going to be a very boring conversation. What did you hope to accomplish by speaking to me in Orlesian?"

"I thought it was a fair assumption. Most people living in the city can speak the language. But it seems as if the tavern is full of foreigners tonight… no offense."

He gave Syora a withering look.

"It's worse that you thought I was Orlesian. Accurately calling me a foreigner isn't an insult. Although I'm surprised a Dalish would describe things in those terms."

"I'm not Dalish anymore," she responded uncomfortably.

With a dark chuckle, the elf retorted, "Well, you're not going to be considered Orlesian anytime soon either. Not that I would complain. This is the worst place I've been in since Tevinter. The only saving grace is," he pointed at his drink, "the wine, and I heard that's actually Antivan. Now, was there a reason you approached me?"

Syora nodded.

"Right, right. There's an issue that I need skilled help with. It's dangerous, and quite important, but it's also potentially very rewarding. I thought you looked like you could handle yourself, so I thought I'd ask."

His interest piqued, the elf turned his full attention to Syora.

"Is that so? Well, I'm currently… not quite sober enough to decide that, and, Maker willing, I'll be out of this shithole the moment a ship arrives that can take me further south. I hope whatever your problem is, it can fit into my unique schedule."

"Well, we'll see."

She handed him one of the same slips of parchment she'd given Garrick and Tarsian.

"I hope to see you again."

He gave her a half-hearted wave as she walked away.

After drifting through the tavern a few minutes, Syora approached the Qunari woman, who was currently guzzling beer from an oversized mug. All eyes in the vicinity were on the Qunari, who seemed slightly annoyed, but not surprised, at her frosty reception. When she saw Syora approaching, the Qunari perked up and actually spoke first to her.

"Finally, someone who's not afraid of me in this city! Come on, sit down."

Somewhat hesitantly, Syora did sit down across the table from the Qunari.

"So, what brings you to talk to the big scary ox-woman?"

"Well, you're… very interesting."

"If that's some kind of come-on, I'm sorry to say we're just not compatible."

With a look halfway between annoyance and embarrassment on her face, Syora replied, "No. I just have one of those ways of speaking, it can… mislead people unintentionally."

"Well, good," the Qunari said, "then what did you mean?"

"For one thing – not the only thing, but a major part – I've never seen a Qunari in person before."

"And you still haven't," she said with resigned annoyance. It sounded like something she'd had to explain a hundred times. "I'm not Qunari. Not anymore."

"Ah, a human with horns, then?"

She let out a sigh.

"Qunari means 'follower of the Qun'. It's an ideology. Or a religion, if that makes more sense to you. Not a race. I haven't been a Qunari in over five years. Now, if you're satisfied with your vocabulary lesson, maybe we can move on to something that actually matters."

"Was there something you had in mind?"

"Introductions would be a good start. I am Katari, a Tal-Vashoth. And you are…?"

"You can just call me Syora."

"Well, Syora, why don't you drink with me? I have a long-standing boast that I can drink any human, elf, or dwarf under the table, and I always like a chance to test it."

After a moment's thought, Syora gave a nod.

"I haven't drunken to excess in far too long. You're on."

"Well, we're going to need something stronger than this. This stuff will make me need to piss before the alcohol gets to me. Hey, you! Get us something stronger. Nothing fancy, just some get-drunk-quick liquor."

A terrified barmaid rapidly nods her head and rushes over to the bar. She returns quickly with a bottle and two shot glasses. With a grin, Katari pours out two shots.

"You know, I'm probably twice your size. You want me to double up? Make it fair?" Katari asked.

"No, no, I can handle my drink. And you're at a handicap since you've already been drinking," Syora insisted.

Katari shrugged.

"All right, then, I suppose."

The two slammed back their shots. Katari could tell it immediately affected Syora. She went from sober to tipsy after only one drink. Katari, for her part, was barely affected.

"Are you sure you can hold your drink?"

"What? Of course I can! Bring on the next one."

"If you insist."

Katari poured out two more shots. She picked it up and drank it almost instantly after pouring it. Syora was more hesitant, and her hand was also wavering, but she slowly raised the glass to her mouth and drank it in a long sip.

"I'm going to stop now," Syora said. "Maybe if I stop when I'm still conscious I'll remember that I actually can't hold my drink. You win."

"I did warn you."

"That you did. Here, take this."

Syora dropped one of the slips of parchment about a foot away from Katari's outstretched hand, then stumbled away and out the door.

And so the seeds of destiny were sown that night. In time, new heroes would grow from them.