"…And what did you encounter in the wooded lands?"
"Today was an interesting day, if I may say so."
"Be quick with it, boy. The scouting report claims you found conflict. Is this true?"
"Yes. In the Hinterlands. A…man…engaged us in battle."
"Oh? What did this man look like? Did he represent a nation or a settlement of people?"
"I-I'm not sure if he was a part of a group, Ser Lahn. I do know that he was naked and old. A bit out of his mind, really."
"Ah, I see. So…tell me then."
"What do you want to know?"
"Everything…"
Brolin watched the sun dance. It stretched over the mountains like gentle fingers caressing the earth. Rays of an immaculate gold reigned everywhere. Some rested in the valley of the Hinterlands, while others made haste over the hill, finding solace on the patch of dirt that Brolin had called home. He turned back to face his farm, observing the arcs of light as they passed by him and shined onto the animal hut. He could hear the creatures calling out to him—either hungry or in need of comforting. It was never anything else.
Not that it bothered him. It was his job after all. Mother and Father were busy tending to the crops and wood piles, while his older brother was off in the forests of the Hinterlands hunting with his longbow. It usually took them a full day to complete their tasks. But for Brolin, he never had enough to do. Tending to the animals on the farm was a simple and quick ordeal. Once they were fed and comforted, he would return outside and find other ways to occupy his time. Things that fought boredom.
Like pretend-war.
That was Brolin's favorite activity.
Once, he was a warrior—brave and courageous like the Warden. He imagined the Arch-Demon returning to Ferelden, bigger and fiercer than ever before. Its gaping maw devoured men from every land—the far deserts of Orlais, the sprawling city of Kirkwall, ancient groves hidden throughout the Korcari Wilds. Another adventure saw Brolin as a rogue traveller, uncovering treasure across the continent. He pictured dead men stashing their prized possessions under boulders the size of castles and in pools of water beneath epic waterfalls. Earthmarks, he called them—chests made of the earth. Surely, nature was the only safe haven for such things. His mind created every kind of scenario. From the hopeless depths of the Fade to the towering ruins of Ostagar.
Brolin was the conqueror of them all.
It was just him and his wooden sword—a blade of 'mystical' design. Forged from the great Redwoods of the Hinterlands, no enemy could withstand its deafening blow. The Arch-Demon tried once in one of Brolin's scenarios but he swiftly decimated that beast, sending it back into the underground forever. That fight was waged at Brolin's farm—often the last place he had to travel in his journey. Whether he was a rogue or a warrior, a mage or skilled messenger, his home was always the final destination. A realm that housed everything he cared for. His family, the animals, their livelihood in the form of the crops. His entire life was here.
And in truth, so was his death.
Brolin rushed over to a bale of hay and retrieved his wooden sword. His initials were carved into its rounded pommel. He rubbed his fingers over the etching and then he walked to the edge of the hill. From there, he could see the sun as it retreated over the nearest mountain, dragging the light and all of the safety it harbored away from the region. Mother and Father warned Brolin of the danger that followed the night. From primal creatures to heartless bandits, there was always something out there waiting for him. Waiting so that they could inflict their horrors.
"There's no reason for you to leave the farm, Brolin. There's nothing out there in the world for people like us…"
Brolin's eyes scanned the dirt road leading down the hill. He had pictured himself walking its length so many times. A fresh and new adventure always beckoned. It began with the road and ended with the farm. Day in and day out. The beginning and the end. Could his parents have been right? Was there really nothing out there in the wilds? Was 'adventure' simply another imaginary thing? Surely there was more. There had to be.
What of the Warden?
What of the Kings and Queens of the known world?
What of Rivain, the Freemarches and the beastly Qunari?
Were these things not real? Could they have been lies told to him before the darkness swept him away to the Fade each night?
Brolin wanted to believe they were real. Though, a part of him resisted. It was a part that was grounded in reality and its dullness. It anchored him to the farm. To his family. To the animals. To home. But how much time was he to waste? He was nearly grown enough to hunt with his older brother, Crelk. Soon, Brolin was going to have to assume that responsibility. Thus Crelk would have to move on to other duties. Like tending to the crops. Perhaps even gathering more wood before winter struck and froze the soil over.
Brolin raised his sights to the sky. Its many wonders filled the expanse—a sea of stars falling into place before him. Held together by the creamy embrace of the sun's afterglow…a settling of light and darkness. An agreement to coexist above the Hinterlands, if only for a few moments. He loved this. All things hung suspended in the balance. It wasn't quite twilight. It was something unnamed. A mystery.
What adventure awaits you out there?
Brolin looked to the farm. His Mother and Father would be back soon—and Crelk a few hours after them. If he left now, he could still make it back before the moon was at its highest point in the sky. His Father would most likely treat him to a few hits of the whipping rope when he returned, but Brolin figured he could explain his absence somehow. Even if he came up empty handed, he would think of something.
Now's your chance to venture for real.
He stole a quick glance to his left, then to his right, as if doing so would grant him permission. Or a chance to catch anything out of the ordinary that might spot him while he made his escape. Not like it would have mattered to Brolin. His mind was made up. His fate…now in the hands of his vast imagination. Without paying another thought to the matter, he embarked on his journey into the valley below, his wooden sword raised high.
Soon, nighttime would be upon him.