A/N: This story follows a Warden of commoner dwarf origin through Dragon Age: Origins. I blame my good friend deagh for making me want to try my hand at writing something within the DAO universe :)

Note that most dialog will be in-game lines, based on the copyrighted work of BioWare, though naturally I will be making up conversations out of whole cloth when needed to explore thoughts or characters in ways that I can't locate applicable in-game lines to adequately express.

Right's name is a nickname, not his true given name, and as he would like to put it "Doesn't refer to being on the path of right, or doing right, or even making the right choices - it's 'cause I'm a right bastard at times."


Right folded his arms and scowled, listening to Beraht talking with his sister Rica. She was putting up a fuss again about their deal with him. A bit late in the day to be having second thoughts, especially when it had been all her idea in the first place; she'd practically twisted his arm off to get him to introduce her to Beraht, after he'd started working for him. She wanted financial backing to become an heir-hunter, and she'd seen his connection to Beraht as the fastest, easiest way to get that.

She'd been jealous of her friends who were already involved in noble hunting; she wanted the finer things in life, was obsessed with the idea of getting out of Dust Town. She'd certainly been happy enough to have Beraht spending money on having her cleaned up, dressed nice, given lessons in deportment, sent to the better parts of town to attend parties where she might meet and attract a highborn lover. She liked that part of things, enjoyed flaunting her finery to her female friends... at least until she reached the "attract a highborn lover" part of it all. She seemed to have become less enamoured of that part of things lately; he wasn't sure why. Something she'd seen or heard at one of the last few parties she'd attended, maybe.

Yet she'd been so enthusiastic all along, happily spending hours building dream castles about what her life would be like if she managed to become the mistress of some wealthy noble son, and how she'd bear him a child - a son, of course! - and be raised up, and leave Dust Town for good. He'd bitten his tongue more then once to resist pointing out to her that she was as likely to bear a daughter as a son; a daughter that would do her no more good then her own birth had done their mother, Kalah. Rica was happy enough to remember that her own blood was half noble, but she sure didn't like being reminded that their mother had entertained similar dreams once, until the birth of a casteless daughter had ended her term as mistress of whatever sodding noble had been Rica's own father.

Kalah liked to claim that she'd later almost been married, before being abandoned by Right's father, but he'd heard enough from older dusters to know the truth. Right's own birth had come about as a result of their mother's attempts to support herself, her infant daughter, and her own growing addiction to mosswine. She'd eventually hit the point of selling herself to any duster with the coin to buy her, a common profession for duster women, and Right had been the eventual result of those random liaisons. Casteless son of an unknown casteless father, his own choices were much more limited then his half-sister Rica's. It wasn't like he could hope to father a child on someone and be raised up as a consequence, that only worked for women. Though if Rica did manage to pull it off, she'd be able to elevate him and their mother as well - assuming she didn't opt to shake them off like dust from her daintily slippered feet.

Even his prowess as a fighter would never earn him anything more then a higher rung on the ladder here in Dust Town; it would never get him out of here. And he was fine with that. He'd made a reasonably comfortable home for them here, the combination of his pay and his muscle being enough to acquire a good-sized set of rooms for himself, his mother, and Rica to live in, with enough left over to keep them reasonably well-fed. He had decent armour, sharp weapons, good friends to hang around with, money to spend when doing so, and a job he enjoyed doing.

What more did a man really need, after all? Silk clothing, finer food, fancier women? Cotton wore better then silk, and armour better yet - with the added bonus of being useful at keeping blades out of your back, something noble silk seemed to attract, judging by the regular goings-on in the Diamond Quarter. Food was fuel to keep the body going; it could taste better, or worse, but food was food. And women were women; take off their clothes and remove the fancy makeup and pretty perfume, and they were all more or less the same underneath, whether pampered noble princess, or casteless stand-up whore.

He pulled his wandering attention back as the conversation between Beraht and Rica became more heated. She had a talent for annoying Beraht; as useful as having a talent for playing with fire. He had a feeling she didn't realize just how dangerous Beraht really was; she scorned the man even as she hungrily latched onto his money, never really giving thought to just how it was that Beraht had that sort of coin. She'd never questioned what sorts of work Right did for the man, not as long as it got her the coin she needed to try and improve her own life.

"We've kept our part of the deal," he interjected, distracting Beraht from his rising ire with Rica.

Rica glared in annoyance at him behind Beraht's back, the glare quickly changing to a smile and a nod of agreement as Beraht turned back to her.

"What do you need me to do?" Right continued, before Rica could say anything to further annoy his boss.

"Your buddy Leske's outside, he knows what I'll need from you today," Beraht said. "Don't even think of bungling this job. Your whole family's on loose sand with me right now."

He stalked out. No sooner had they heard the front door close when Rica started berating him about his failure to stand up to Beraht on her behalf, before switching to complaining about how well one of her friends had already done while she herself had still to gain a proper patron.

"I need to get going before Beraht comes back," Right said, cutting her off. "Good-bye."

He turned and left the room. Gods, she drove him mad. Never happy with what she had, always wanting something more.

He paused, a faint smile coming to his lips as he reached the front room and saw their mother sitting at the table, a half-empty bottle in front of her. She was doing better lately, since he'd earned them all a proper home, and regular meals; time was she'd have been well into a second bottle by this time of day.

"Good afternoon, mother," he said.

She looked up muzzily, and frowned. "Whozzat? Why are you bothering me?" she asked suspiciously. "Rica?" she called out questioningly, starting to look frightened.

Not one of her good days; she'd forgotten who he was again; in her wine-addled state, she could remember that she had a son, but thought he was still a child, not the adult he'd become.

"It's the king of Ozhammar - I heard you were single," he joked.

"Don't you sass me, you ungrateful brat! I made you and I can make another just like you," she snarled.

He suppressed a sigh. Sometimes she'd respond to humour in kind, eyes glinting with good humour, smile widening, the charming woman who'd once been crowned the "Paragon of Beauty" at a nobleman's party briefly showing through. But clearly not today.

"Never mind. Sleep it off - again," he told her, and walked away, tuning out her bitter response, hearing the clink of bottle against table behind his back as she resumed her solitary drinking.


"Leske! How's it shaping?" he asked, grinning to see his friend and partner waiting outside their home, leaning against a bit of crumbling stonework. They joked back and forth for a couple of minutes, before turning to business. Another nasty bit of scut-work, tracking down and disciplining some duster who Beraht suspected was skimming.

They headed out of Dust Town, exchanging words with some of the whores and beggars they passed. They tracked down Oskias, the duster in question, drinking in Tapster's. He started sweating as soon as Right sat down across from him; he stunk of guilt as much as he did of the cheap lichen ale he'd been guzzling. They barely had to lean on him at all to get him to confess that he'd been skimming lyrium. And not just a little lyrium - 25 sovereign's worth!

Leske and Right exchanged a look. Leske folded his arms, and raised his voice. "Could everyone who isn't about to die please turn around for a moment? This may be unpleasant. Thank you."

The few people nearby hastily moved away or left entirely, not wanting to be witnesses to what happened next. Oskias hastily rose to his feet, pulling out a battered shield and a poorly-sharpened sword; he clearly knew more about mining then he did about fighting, and with the two of them against his one... well, it was over fast.

They quickly searched him and his bags, retrieving what little lyrium he'd had on him, and headed off to report to Beraht.


Beraht was talking quietly to his lieutenant Jarvia when they arrived at the shop that was the front for the entrance to his hideout. He was pleased to see them, and even more pleased when they confirmed that he'd been right about Oskias, and handed over the nuggets.

And, of course, he already had another job in mind for the pair of them, helping to fix a fight at the Proving Grounds so that some young long shot named Everd would win his round against a much more experienced warrior named Mainar. Easy enough to arrange, they just had to drug the water supply in his change room.

The only problem would be getting into the Grounds - casteless couldn't attend the fights there, their presence was offensive to warriors, who felt that them even touching a weapon was sufficient to sully it. But Beraht had the answer to that - a pass, identifying them as being there as cleaners. The guard at the front gate still gave them grief before he'd let them in, but that was to be expected. It made Right feel all the better about picking his pocket, the guard foolishly standing too close to him in an attempt to physically intimidate him as he walked by. He mimed fear away even as his hand dipped into the guard's pocket, the guard's own amusement at Right's cowering preventing him from noticing the theft.


The pair of them paused just inside the doors, looking around. It was the first time Right had even seen the inside of the building. The rough-hewn roof hung comfortably low overhead, supported at regular intervals by stout pillars, ornately carved, with decorative capitals shaped like the heads of famous warriors. Well-dressed spectators roamed the space, exchanging pleasantries as they discussed the upcoming fights, and wagered on the outcomes.

Right grinned hungrily, looking around the room.

"You're not thinking what I think you're thinking, are you?" Leske asked apprehensively. "Beraht will kill us if we get picked up by the guards for pick-pocketing before we've dosed Mainar's water."

"The guards here?" Right sneered. "Look at them - my mother on her worst day would be more attentive then they are!"

Leske had to admit he was right; there were guards around, but duty here tended to be an easy post, apart from the rare occasion when spectators came to blows over the outcome of some particularly closely-contested fight. Most of them just stood there, staring off into space, they eyes dulled with boredom. Not a one was paying any attention to the wandering crowds.

"Come on," Right said, and began circulating around the room, staying as unobtrusive as he could as he casually walked by people, fingers effortlessly harvesting a miscellany of goods and small coin from their pockets and pouches.

He was looking around for another target, having just divested some young woman of a nice gold ring, when he spotted the dark-haired, armour-clad human standing in the middle of the chamber, talking to some red-bearded old man. The human's eyes were on him, watching, an amused look in his dark eyes. Right froze. Had his pick-pocketing been noticed?

"Who's that?" he whispered to Leske, tilting his head to indicate the human.

"Stone's embrace! That's one of them! One of the Grey Wardens," Leske hissed, then grinned. "Oh, I dare you to go over and talk to him. Say 'Welcome to Orzammar, sir, may I drink your bathwater?'"

Right gave him a look. "Why not," he abruptly said, and marched over, ignoring Leske's strangled hiss of surprise and fear.

The man turned to face him as he approached. "Stone met, and blessings on your house," he said, smiling warmly at him. "That was the proper greeting for an outsider the last time I visited Orzammar. Has it changed? Or is there a reason you're looking at me so strangely?"

"In my part of Orzammar, we just go with 'Hello'," Right said, wondering if the human was pulling his leg with so flowery a greeting. Nobles might use such words to each other, he supposed, but no one would ever speak to a casteless that way.

"We do the same in my part of Ferelden. Hello, then. My name is Duncan. I'd say 'of the Grey Wardens', but I suspect you already know that. Pleased to meet you."

"I'm right. Of... of nobody," Right said, lifting his chin as if daring Duncan to comment on it.

"Ah, of course, that's what the face brand means then. I remember that now."

"Yes. And yes, you can have me arrested for harassing you," Right told him belligerently.

A faint smile crossed Duncan's face. "For saying hello? My friend, to a Grey Warden nothing short of a slathering darkspawn waking you in your bedroll counts as harassment. Actually, I'm glad I met you. Whenever we come to Orzammar, we always stay in the Diamond Quarter. You forget how much of the city you miss."

Leske had edged closer as the two of them were talking. Now he tugged on Right's sleeve, eye's flicking to the nearby guards, who'd started to take notice of an obvious casteless talking to the honoured guest for today's fights.

"I have to go now," Right said.

Duncan had followed Leske's glance as well. He smiled understandingly. "Go, then. And let us hope we both find what we're looking for."

He moved off, stopping the approaching guard to ask him some innocuous question. Right and Leske hurried off, Right feeling surprised at how readily the dark-haired human had accepted his presence. He'd heard rumours that things were different on the surface, but he'd never really believed it.


"Sod it! He's stone drunk! He could draw a dead man for his bout and still lose!" Leske exclaimed.

Right frowned down at the sodden, muttering form sprawled out on the floor. They'd come across Everd's quarters first on their search for Mainar's room. The warrior was certainly in no condition to stand up, much less get into the ring and win a bout. Beraht was not going to be happy about this.

"Hey, I just had an idea..." Leske said.

"Do I want to hear this?" Right asked suspiciously.

"So, you've been rubbing my nose in how you're the meanest thing with a blade, right?" Leske hurriedly answered. "Everd's armour is over there and you're about the same size..."

Right gave him a startled look, then frowned in thought. He was good with a blade; whatever else his unknown father had given him, he'd inherited fast reflexes and a strong body. As a child he'd dreamed of what it would be like to be a warrior caste son, winning fame and glory in the Provings. As a casteless, it was something he could never hope to do. Recklessly, he decided to grab the opportunity with both hands. If he won, they'd keep Beraht happy, and if he lost... well, at least they'd be able to tell beraht that they'd tried their best.

"If I do this, I'll win by skill alone. I won't use the drug." he told Leske abruptly.

Leske agreed, and the two of them quickly outfitted Right in Everd's armour, even as an announcement of Everd's upcoming bout with Mainar echoed through the building. Equipping the shield gave him brief second thoughts - he'd never used one of the sodding things, preferring to have a weapon in each hand instead of a heavy slab of metal weighing him down - but how hard could it be? And Everd's axe was a sweet weapon, with a fine edge honed on it, better then any he'd ever held before.

"Don't forget to keep your helmet down!" Leske hissed after him as he headed toward the arena entrance. He nodded, not looking back.


"This is a glory proving! Fought under the watchful eyes of the Paragons of Orzammar, for our honoured guests, the Grey Wardens," the announcer's voice boomed out as Right and Mainar approached the centre of the arena.

Right felt his nervousness rising as the announcer continued. He was sweating inside the suit of armour. He'd never realized how heavy the sodding stuff was; just walking out here had taken noticeable effort. That was going to have a big impact on how he fought; his usual style, already hampered by the shield on one arm, would be impossible to manage as encumbered by the armour as he currently was.

He hastily brought his attention back to the match as Mainar spoke some pompous ritual words about the upcoming match. He growled something in response, then the two of them closed, the battle beginning.

Fighting in armour with an axe and shield proved every bit as different - and as difficult! - as he'd feared. A lucky strike early in the match that temporarily stunned Mainar was all that prevented him from losing the match with the first few minutes. Mainar might be old, but he knew his weapons, and moved with a swift economy that made the most of his equipment. But Right had a lot of experience too, in an even tougher school of fighting; street-fighting, where anything goes, and losing meant death or serious injury, with no healers standing by to sooth torn flesh or damaged muscle. He quickly adapted to the heavy axe and armour, and pulled off a creditable victory, Mainar crumpling to the ground in an unconscious heap.

The announcer called for a healer and announced the next bout. Right was shocked to hear Everd's name called a second time, and cursed himself for forgetting that winning the one bout wasn't enough; he'd be facing a series of opponents, and if he beat all of those, be moved on to a final match.

He considered throwing the second bout. He'd only needed to win the one to secure Beraht's bet, and getting out of here before anything went wrong would be the wisest course. But... if he lost, he'd most likely be passed out - or faking it - and the healers would take him off to look over. They'd notice he wasn't who he was supposed to be the moment his helmet was removed. Besides - he'd never get another chance to do this, to fight in the arena against the best of the warrior caste. Not in this lifetime, anyway. No, he'd have to try and get through the bouts for now, and hope to slip away afterwards.

He'd achieved a reasonable mastery of his weapons and armour now, and the next two bouts passed with surprising swiftness, versus another experienced warrior named Adalbo, who wielded a massive two-handed axe, and Lenka, an initiate Silent Sister bearing a paired long sword and dagger that he eyed enviously, the sort of weapons he'd only been able to dream of owning.

He heaved a sigh of relief as the announcer was offering congratulations on his entry to the final bout. Just one more fight to get through, and then he'd be away. His relief came too early, however - he heard a growing muttering from the watching audience, and a slurred voice raised querulously behind him.

He turned, to see an obviously drunken Everd staggering into the arena. "Hey! That's my armour!" Everd exclaimed before falling down. Right silently cursed, wishing the man had fallen down a few minutes earlier – before entering the arena, and exposing him as an imposter.

"Who are you? How dare you disrupt this sacred..." the announcer demanded, scowling in anger over the crass interruption of the bout.

"Wait! I know that man!" Mainar exclaimed, rising to his feet from where he'd been seated nearby, watching the bouts after his own earlier loss. "That's Everd! Then... what impostor did I fight!"

"Remove your helmet, warrior, and let all who watched you see your face!" the announcer thundered furiously.

Right grimaced, then drew himself up. In for a copper, in for a sovereign. "I will not!" he replied loudly. "My victories have earned me your respect."

"Your skills are impressive, but you are but one man. Remove your helmet yourself, lest I call the guards and have them do it for you," the announcer replied threateningly. Guards entered the arena and began warily approaching him, weapons at the ready in case he tied to resist.

"Very well. Look then, and see who I am," he responded, removing the helmet and dropping it to the stone by his feet, standing proudly upright, head held high, as the watching audience reacted with horror and vituperation to the presence of a casteless duster in their precious Proving Grounds.

The circling guards closed in. A blow to the back of his head sent him spiralling down into darkness.