There are men who struggle against destiny, only to achieve an early grave.

There are men who flee destiny, only to have it swallow them whole.

And there are men who embrace destiny, and do not show their fear.

Origin

They had him surrounded.

Theirs was a dreadful lot; blood-stained lips chapped and chaffing against serated teeth, fangs that hungered for flesh. His flesh. Though they were stood upright like men did, were armored like men would be, and wielded swords in the same way you might expect of an untrained peasant, these abhorations were the furthest things from the truth, a grisly, sickly truth that swarmed in on a single man from all sides, threatening to devour him at any moment.

These were darkspawn.

Trapped within their midst, a robed man fought for his very life. He fought and fought and fought, ripostingwith his staff and parrying with his shortsword, never resting, never still, for fear of what might happen should he tarry too long.

Then the unthinkable occurred.

One of them struck a lucky blow, its serrated fingers finding-tearing-the cowl from his face with terrifying ease. The robed warrior lurched back, stunned for a moment, a thin jet of blood sluicing down a whiskered cheek. Thinking itself to be victorious, the hurlock surged forward, ready to bring its mighty battle axe down for the kill. Then a blade found the fiend's face and brought an end to that gruesome grimace forever with a decapitation as swift as it was brutal.

The silent stranger skipped backward, wincing, his face exposed now to the blighted sunlight which he so abhored.

He was a handsome fellow, if intense. His blond hair was disheveled, his blue eyes intelligent, his features balanced. Whisker marks tripled each cheek, cheeks that had once dimpled with a constantly bright and enthused grin; no matter the situation or mission. Now, he was intense. His face had hardened, his visage freed of the baby fat that had plagued him in his younger years. Chiseled and nigh but expressionless, that face bore a series of angry red lines from left ear to right, drooping down his chin and neck and lips, which pursed now into a scowl as he flung a hand forward, two fingers jutting prominently outward.

"May the void take you!" He snarled, the oath invoking ancient words of power, triggering his talent. "And grind you unto dust!"

A great and angry tear wrought itself across the veil; because suddenly, there was fire within his fingertips. Not just fire. A bolt of light, lightning arced through him, spreading to the unfortunate foes that had drawn to close. They writhed beneath the unspeakable fury of the heavens, unable to attack nor defend; betrayed by their own metallic armor as tendril after tendril of righteous wrath spread between them and left them charred.

Then he ceased his assault, and reached to the flames. They came, joyfully.

Someone was screaming, a terrible scream compounded a hundred times by the orange curtain that seemingly ripped his human form asunder, shaking every broken branch and shattered stump upon the great plain in which he had become laughed and flung his arms out. As they passed in front of him, he saw that his skin had totally disappeared beneath the all-absorbing wriggling blackness. Nor did the flames stop at the bounds of his body. They lashed out from his arms-out farther and farther, like great wings-and came down on either side, barely registering the darkspawn's last desperate attacks.

"Begone!"

He felt them crunch beneath those mighty wings like beetles popping under his boot. Their bodies broke like shells and the softness within was ground to gory smears on the decks below. And throughout it all, not a single drop of blood spattered upon him. Any moisture that dared near this demonic angel of death simple evaporated. He was truly death incarnate; come to reclaim what had been lost; come to deliver doom and death to all those who opposed him.

The flames sang power and hatred and strength. It is vile, and I love it.

Eventually, he became aware of others.

As he spun and stabbed and struck, he gradually noticed their prescence. There, edging toward the plateau and the preoccupied horde, was a group of refugees. He knew that they were refugees only because he'd seen Lothering, and he saw the anxiety etched into each of their faces. They were surprisingly few in number; amongst them two young girls, a boy, two women, and...

His eyes bulged.

'Maker have mercy! A templar! Here, of all places!'

For a moment, he genuinely considered killing them outright. Then he saw the wound. Someone, or rather, something, had rent him a viscious gash from shoulder to hip, that wound would forever deprive him of his sword arm, though it did relatively little to explain why his shield was being carried by another. He, like the second woman, strayed to ward the back, carefully to stay out of the path of the enroaching horde.

But as his disbelief piqued, so to did his interest. The two slightly older women were of little no interest with him, although the red-haired one fought quite valiantly with sword and shield, he noted that, while she found the darkspawn with reckless abandon, she also made great effort not to stray too far from the templar's side. She was guarding him he realized, with a wave of bitterness and digust so vile that he nearly melted a genlock on the spot, such was his rage.

She was guarding a templar.

As defensive as her approach was, it limited her effectiveness, which, could have been devastating, had she not been so single-minded in her protection. She struck out only a hairsbreadth from those darkspawn who neared the fringes at the fray; just enough to keep them at bay. That was not enough for the mage, nor was it satisfying. Why was it that she guarded a templar, and essentially reduced her role in this conflict?

It was infuriating.

Yet the two girls-they looked so very much alike that they surely must be sisters-were not quite so lethargic in their response. Both he noted, bore a staff, and both, were just as quick to join the fray almost as much as the boy-poor lad must've been their brother-was eager to prove himself. He was foolish and reckless and the magi did not pity him one iota of a difference as he charged headlong into the fray, bellowing at the top of his lungs.

Ultimately, it was the sisters that warranted his attention. As did the first bolt of fire that carromed off the darkspawn nearest to him, utterly incinerating the creature. Sparing the offending caster an apprehensive glance, he was relieved to find that the next attack, a cascading shower of icy sparks, strayed a bit further from his physical being. Now, now it made perfect sense.

They, the girls, were magi.

Incredibly inexperienced and not entirely well trained magi, granted, but magi none the less. Already, he could feel his initial contempt for the refugees ebbing somewhat. The likelihood that they knew his identity remained likely however, and thus, he was determined to remain on guard. That readiness, the ability to move at a moments notice, was the only thing that saved his life when the ogre came pounding up the path, bearing down on him with teeth bared and horns lowered.

It all happened so fast.

One moment he'd and the refugees had stood their ground before the beast. The next, the scattered, like so many doves, fluttering off to the sides of the plateau and beyond, in an attempt to escape the marauding creature. The boy was nearly trampled to death, such was his haste. The templar and his flannel-haired guardian emerged likewise but unscathed nonetheless, as did the elder of the two sisters, coming out of her roll into a practiced crouch, a bolt of fire already searing forth from her hand.

It carromed harmlessly off the ogre's hide and into the ground. The beast whirled, with otherwordly speed, the back of its armored fist rippling across the young woman's jaw and hurtling her across the plateau. She flew. Literally. One moment she'd been hunched over into a crouch, the next, her back met the trunk of a withered tree with an audible thump, and she was defeated.

Alas, the ogre seized chose that moment upon the most unlikely of targets. Instead of pursuing the elder of the two sisters, or turning its attention upon the boy who rushed it in a foolhardy charge, it turned its attention upon mother and daughter. The younger of the two sisters stood between it and its prey. A pair of fireballs slammed into the chest of the beast and for a moment it staggered, and it seemed as though the day would be won.

Then the ogre reached down for the younger sister, seizing her in one gargantuan fist. With a primal bellow it, crushed her against the soil, then threw her aside as if she were nothing and left her there to bleed out in a puddle of her own blood. The magi watched and he felt his heart wrench at the sight. Poor thing. She never had a chance. A mortal held no power over such a creature; not even a normal mage could hope to stand up to such a beast.

"Bethany!" Her sister screamed; it was a terrible, keening sound.

The ogre ignored the sister's screams for her fallen sibling, it came for the mother, reaching down with blatant intent. A snarling stream of golden light flared across its eyelids before it could to the dastardly deed however. The flare came not from the boy, not from the shield maiden nor her templar friend, nor either of the fallen sisters, but from the unamed magi

"Here!" He bellowed, thing lines of blood slimming his arms, sweeping up his wrists, running into his armored fists. "Over here you gutless genlock!"

That got its attention.

The magi was already tracing the bloodied lines acros the runes of his forearm. He felt the power of his blood flow through the limbs, imbuing them with otherwordly strength; because the power needed to vanquish this ogre was a power beyond mortal measure. Without it, there could be no hope. For victory or otherwise. Even as the beast dealt its deadly deed, so too, had the mage dealt his own.

The beast came for him with a great and terrible bellow, horns lowered, clearly intending to skewer him. Instead, a hand seized upon its left shoulder. Then another upon the right, binding it in place with great and terrible travesty. Two hands, those of a giant, emerging from a pair of portals on either side of it. The ogre seemed to realize just what fate lay in store for it now; because abruptly it roared and bellowed and bucked, redoubling its efforts to break free as the iron gauntles inexorably tightened their girp.

With a great and terrible wrench, the ogre came apart at the seams.

Cleaved in two, the severed halves toppled to the earth, collapsing wetly upon one another. Severed, the halves of its face forever frozen in an expression of complete and utter terror, it lay there, decaying into an ever darkening pool of its own blood. The magi retracted his fists from the arcane portal, restoring them at the wrist as the large and undeniably powerful gauntlets faded.

Eventually, the wave of darkspawn ebbed, falling back under the assault lent to him by the strangers. He turned, aware of the sobbing, of the weeping, the wailing and all the moaning over the girl's depature from this world. Suddenly irate, he pushed into the group, rudely slamming his shoulder into the Templar, who had, until a moment ago, had been commending the girl's soul to the maker.

"Stand aside templar," He growled, his voice tumbling to a lower pitch. "She yet lives."

"What?" The man remained incredulous. "Look at her, how can you say that?"

"Maker's breath...the older woman, most likely the mother, breathed in disbelief. "Are you certain?"

"As I live and breathe." The blond magi nodded, dropping to his knees before Bethany's limp form. "There is a chance for your daughter, but I must act."

Without further adeu, he laid hands upon her. For a terrifying second, he couldn't find her heartbeat. His spirits sank like a sinking stone. No. There was still time! Surely there was still enough time to save her life. There had to be. He would not allow himself to fail. Not again. Not after the last time...

Ba-dump.

Her lifesigns were faint, but...there!

He breathed, willing health, substance, life itself, back into her fragile form. He saw the breaks and fractures where her ribs had been sundered, her lungs torn, filling up with rapidly welling pools of blood. He held his hands over her, igniting two coin-sized sphere of healing energy within the palms of his hands. Suddenly, and without warning, he plunged them into her chest; it was a sickening, squelching sound.

"Bethany," He murmurred, dimly recalling the name her sister had spoken, "Come back. Return to us..."

He withdrew them, the luminescent whisps had swollen to the size of his fists. They were now a swollen, angry red, and, judging by the look of the perplexed onlookers. The magi did not bother to explain their purpose. How were they to know that he had drawn all the pain and suffering from her body; supplanting it instead with the rich, vibrant vitality that she had once possesed. He dispelled the orbs and repeated the process three times, each time, leeching out more and more of the agony that'd so transfixed her lovely form.

"I bid you return!" The magi thundered, and suddenly, the still corpse beneath him spasmed. "Bethany!"

Bethany groaned; because suddenly, there was life within her lungs. She spat a congealed wad of blood into the soil and sat upright, scrubbing at her eyes with the back of a hand as she struggled to understand her sudden death, then revival. The magi who had restored her slumped, doubly and visibly exhausted from the efforts his ministrations had demanded of him. From there he turned his attention to the elder sister, who, still lay in a crumpled heap.

"Bethany!"

With a sob, her mother held her daughter close.

"Oh, maker bless you, stranger!"

"Another apostate?" The wounded templar bemoaned himself. "Oh, and a blood mage no less! Maker have mercy on us all."

"And here I thought I'd kept myself inconspicious." The blond magi grumbled to himself.

"Wesley...The red-haired woman murmurred softly. "Dear, he saved us. The Maker understands...

"Well, yes, Aveline. I suppose you are right, in that regard...

Despite this, the cloaked magi merely painted a smile onto his face and shook his head.

"No thanks necessary." He stood woodenly, not taking enough care as he made his way over to the fallen sibling. When he finally got there, he was in He'd expected to find a corpse, sprawled out as she was. Instead, he found himself staring into a pair of impossibly turquious orbs, alarmlingly alert and all-too aware of him. Suddenly sheepish, he'd offered his hand to her, hoping that she might take it.

"Did anyone catch the number of that ogre?" She asked blearily.

The magi smiled.

"We're in the middle of a blight, girl." He stared at her when she refused to move. "Now isn't the time to be laying about."

"Really?" She replied, a small smile playing across the corners of her lips. "Suppose I just lay here? What then?"

"Then I carry you." He ammended lightly. "I've no idea who you are-or think you are for that matter-but, clearly you haven't the time for this, and neither do I." Without further adeu, he reached down, clasped her by the forearm, and forcibly hauled the girl to her feet.

"That trick back there...that was pretty handy." Hawke mumbled at length.

The mage laughed then, a deep chuckle that seemed to rumble up from low in his chest. "Indeed it is, friend Hawke and a handy one at that. Bounty hunters tend to kick in doors, robbers tend to ransack, and I, well, why should I bother fitting anywhere within the norm where fellow mages are concerned?" He waved a hand around dismissively as if he truly couldn't care less that he'd single-handedly killed an ogre.

And it was at that instant that the dragon came swooping down from her perch upon them, spewing flames into the encroaching darkspwan.

These are the ones who will change the world.