"Find the path that destiny has chosen and see for yourself what lies beyond" – Casor Amell

I know from my smile that I will always sing to the tune of adventure. Despite navigating this ridiculous path that barely qualifies as a 'path', I smile through the huffs as I make my way up the charred hill. Even after a decade of travelling and war, my curiosity taps at my heart at this awe-inspiring scene. I take time to savor this moment… despite it all, it is the beginning of another adventure.

Call me Casor. I'm well known enough, but I want you to know who I am at this moment, at the precipitance of change. I am a mage of thirty-one; but I look more like a warrior in my griffon plate armor. I carry no staff so that I may always have the element of surprise. I don't look thirty-one either – I look younger, probably thanks to my handsome face. That last statement will come out as arrogant no matter how I put it, but 'tis true. I can melt many a heart.

My heart? Once, it used to be fickle – cowardly, bitter, and arrogant. My lips usually held back the poison that would spit at any and every thing. Oh, I am exaggerating my past, I know, but I wasn't particularly the most hospitable person in the Circle. That changed during the Blight. It had to. Experiencing death, trauma, duty, and fear, the little boy had to learn quick. You'd think that I would've become even colder – but then came love, and courage. By the end of the journey, I knew I had become an entirely new person, plagued forever by adventures.

Just re-reading that last paragraph, my words are akin to words written by a little boy dreaming of a Hero. Cringeworthy as they are, they are true nonetheless. After all, I am but a little boy in the body of a man growing old.

This is me. Was me. Is me. I want you to remember that, even when I didn't.

As with all adventures, this one too begins with a terrifying view from a vantage point. The sky is a smoldering mess, mountains red with belching fire. The ground is black, resembling the Blighted grounds. Few streams of liquid puncture the land, steaming as if in agony. Even on good days, it is difficult to see far, and every breath causes a cough of irritation. It is little wonder that the lands of the West have had been shrouded in mystery: this is the edge of Thedas... the End of the World.

"A good place to label as the 'End'." I murmur.

I adjust my mouth cover and shift uncomfortably in my armor. Inscribed in silver, I finger the double Griffin heraldry of a Warden Commander, trying to return its shine against the soot of this accursed place. I can feel the grime rubbing onto my skin. I snicker – it is difficult to ponder the great future, and ask the question of unknown beyond when I need a damned bath.

There is a soft crunch behind me, and I wait for him join me at the plateau. The messenger takes a moment to catch his breath.

"Commander, news for you."

I nod, signaling him to continue. I would have offered him some water, but the best I can manage is a large ice shard. I don't think he'd like that.

"The Mouse Ear agent has arrived Commander, and so has a crow from Orlais. Here."

The messenger produces a small scroll from his sleeve and hands it me. I recognize this red Orlesian seal, break it open, and swiftly read the smooth vellum. It does not take long for the message to prove itself to be a major annoyance – yet another Orlesian political debacle.

Except…

With a sigh, I roll up the scroll and hand it back to the messenger.

"I… guess I should've seen this coming. Dammit… Call everyone in. Even the watchers. I want a full meeting tonight, two hours after sunset. Tell the Mouse Ear agent to meet me outside my cabin in half an hour." I order. The messenger gives an affirmative nod then leaves. I return the gaze to the landscape.

I reach up into my armor and pull out my necklace. It's pretty; a tear-drop shaped piece of gold about the size of an acorn, always hanging from my neck on a silver chain, usually hidden beneath the clothes. I roll it back and forth on my palm, thinking…

I put it back beneath my armor.

Turning to leave, I look up, and throw a ball of fire into the sky. Just for fun.

I walk into my cabin tent, shaking off ash as I go, preoccupied with the message on the scroll. I look up towards the doorway and spend the next second trying to not look so shocked. There stood the Mouse Ears agent… and whoever I had expected, it wasn't her.

The female Qunari approaches me with light leather steps. "Greetings, Commander of the Grey. You have requested my presence here."

The first thing I notice about her is her height. She's terribly short for a Qunari, barely taller than me. Her stooping posture doesn't help, though I guess it make her look menacing. The next thing I notice is her horns – and lack thereof. It's been sawn off, with only rounded stumps marking their spot. That explains her wearing of clothes clearly of non-Qunari origin. The last thing I notice is her eyes, which were trained to be unrevealing. That skill in itself revealed a lot about her – and many of my presumptions would prove to be quite accurate.

I think I've seen her before – as the gargoyle statue that once decorated the Tower exterior. Their cowl even feels the same.

"Nice to meet you. My name is Casor Amell. Your name is…?"

I offer my hand with a smile. The agent shakes it emotionlessly. Her hands are coarse and grooved at its tips.

"I am referred to as Tal."

I nod, and let her follow me into the tent. It's closer to a claustrophobic rag on stilts, but the lack of furnishing gives it an illusion of space. Grey Wardens aren't the sort to choose anyway, but at least this one has a separate bedroom – privilege of a Commander.

"Take a seat. Any drinks?"

Tal shakes her head slowly. She sits down, leaning forward onto the small table. The chair gives out a little groan of pain at her weight, though it makes that sound with me on it as well. I grin, pull out a water bag, and rehydrate myself before I cure like a jerky.

I turn to offer her a drink, but she shakes her head slowly. I wonder if gargoyles would move in slow motion like she does. Replacing the bag, I produce pen and paper, and return to the desk with a prepared list of questions.

"So, you are here to guide us into the West. Although I have many questions to ask you, I'm sure we'll have time to speak later. So I will ask you the most pressing of the questions."

Tal nods, her eyes boring into mine.

"What do you know of the Artefact?"

Tal shakes her head. "Nothing."

I feel tempted to right 'nothing' in large block letters on paper.

"Then who is the person that sent the message – or a vision?"

"Seer Pervanti."

"Okay... Then who is this Seer Pervanti?"

"Seer Pervanti is a human Seer."

I write down the name and wait for more. An awkward silence ensues. Qunaries! Why couldn't they ever be sociable?

"Okay, who are the Seers?"

"They are Bas Saarebas. Mages, in your tongue. They are like Ariqun, the priests, in the West."

"Mage Priests? The Chantry's going to have a fit. So, there's no Chantry in the West?"

"No."

"That was a stupid question. I'll give you that. Wait, so do these Seers lead some other religion?"

"No."

I growl inside, remembering conversations with Sten many years ago. Why didn't any of the Qunari simply speak freely? For Andraste's sake, why?

"Why did you say that these Seers are like priests?"

"People listen to them."

I shake my head, attempting to free myself from the pain of this ridiculous interview. With an inaudible sigh, I move my pen to the most important question.

"Alright. This journey ahead. How long will it take? How many people do you think I can bring?"

Tal thinks for a while, her gaze still held against mine. This, I know how to deal with – every Qunari expects you to squirm in the seat. It's their way of asserting dominance, and testing your worth. So I stare back with equal intensity. It hurts my eyes.

"It has taken me nine days. Lands ahead are perilous. Take no more than two with you. Water holes will not support more than four."

I nod. It's not great news, but not entirely unexpected. It doesn't take long for me to choose the two companions – one for a good old friend, and another for the Chantry, a payment made for the opening round of the Game. Now it's Leliana's turn.

The rest of the Wardens? I presume they will be quite occupied with a building project…

"Thank you, Tal. Please, rest here in this cabin. Use whatever you wish. We will leave tonight."

"Warden Dyon's just arrived. That's all of us, Commander."

I nod. A group of thirty Grey Wardens stands silently in the dark camp clearing, lit by torchlights that protrude from the wooden buildings. It's sort of intimidating, even after a decade, to think that I am in command of the most feared warriors in the world. A motley group of mostly questionable origins, yes, but venerable nonetheless. I know that they are proud to behold the Hero of Ferelden as their commander – so I try my best to live up to that pride. I think I'm doing well, because they all love me. I think.

Some others stand at the edge of the clearing – opportunistic merchants, minor noblemen, and a group of Chantry 'heralds'. These people I know for certain don't love me. I hadn't particularly welcomed them, but hadn't banished them from the camp either, automatically making them the unwanted party crashers. I wanted to keep them that way.

I step onto a small stool that serves as a makeshift podium, and watch as the silence settles over the camp. I smile sadly before I speak.

"Good evening, Grey Wardens! I've got only bad news, but important nonetheless. The first one. The Orlesians' are going mad with politics as usual. [some laughter, some groans, many frowns from the party crashers] Except this time, it isn't just the Game anymore. There's a fight brewing between Empress Celene and Grand Duke Gaspard. If my instincts are correct, this is going to be a war. Perhaps. Now, my claim of war alone is enough to brand me as an enemy of Orlais, which gives you the sense of the sensitivity of this situation. I understand the Warden's rule – not to interfere in politics. However, war is war. People die, and we cannot just watch that unfold. Therefore, I will reassign you all to the primary order of protecting the people from harm. Obviously, you keep to the Warden orders – which I will tell you in a minute – but I ask you to ensure the safety of the people whenever you can. Anyway, this means that we go from a 'non-existent on paper' mission to 'out of concern' mission. We've effectively lost all support from Orlais and the Chantry. They sent me a message that the supports may arrive 'infrequently'… This is bad. For the people, I mean… Lucky for us, the location here seems quite sustainable, ashen as they are. That's why I want a fort here. A stone fort. Self-sustained. Warden Gada, you were a stonemason before you joined us, right?"

A moon-faced dwarf grunts in response.

"I put you in charge in constructing a fort here. Let's call it the World's Edge, because this that's what this place is. I want a sustainable, long-term fort that will serve as a forward base to those wishing to travel to the West. This fort, at least in the coming few years, must also serve as a refugee camp for those displaced by war."

The eldest of the Wardens hold uncertain frowns on their faces. They understand my motivations, but clearly remember the Warden's Keep rebellion. I couldn't care less.

"I also want you to start researching this area. There's a reason why darkspawn couldn't cross this place and into the West. The First Warden wants to know why."

I did not know it then, but World's Edge would eventually become a backwater camp for Venatori, and the very clearing I was standing in would be a staging ground for blood sacrifices. By the time I return, expecting a warm welcome and nice rest, this place would be an active battlefield between the remaining madmen and the Inquisition. It is ironic that the Warden Gada is so efficient in his building when he is lazy for most other things.

Warden Eln puts his hand up. I nod at him.

"Why would we need a forward base here? Are we not going to the West?"

"No. That leads precisely to my next news. Our guide into the West arrived. She told me that no, we cannot all go to the West. Only three people, other than our guide, can. This is because of lack of drinking water on our path there. I have already chosen my companions. Warden Sigrun, you're coming with me."

There is a murmur of surprise amongst the Wardens (about the 'not-everyone-can-go' part, not 'Warden-Sigrun-is-going' part. Sigrun had gained a lot of respect and favor amongst the Order, and everyone knew of her accomplishments during Darkspawn Civil War). Sigrun flashes a grin, the same, familiar grin from eight years ago, and makes her way to the front.

There is an outburst of anger amongst the party crashers, one that justifies my nickname for them. But I guess I can understand their anger; they are here to do business after all, and the news that they wouldn't be able to go to the West is the last thing they probably want to hear. I nod and hold up a hand, waiting for some time to get my silence.

"I understand that this may cause some problems to our guests. That is why I will leave a trail behind, so that anyone can follow. You Wardens know what I am talking about. If anybody does follow, then do not go more than three at a time, and do not go without waiting for at least a month after the previous group. This is to keep the water holes alive."

On my return journey, I found that my trail was still very much intact. Considering what happened in Thedas during my absence, I am surprised nobody attempted a panicked escape from the chaos.

"I ask the Wardens to focus on your construction and research here, but that is not an order. If anybody do want to desperately go to the West, then you are welcome. Alright. That's the news. I will leave tonight, after most of you go to sleep, so this is a good-bye. I wish you all well, and stay strong. Remember our oath. In War, victory. In Peace, vigilance. In Death, Sacrifice. Remember that we are the Grey Wardens. Remember what makes us the heroes of Thedas. From this moment on, I relinquish my position of Commander to Constable-Warden Wime. Congratulations, new Commander."

One thing I am reminded every night is how jolly Grey Wardens are. My insistence that farewell party isn't necessary is easily waved away, and we all enjoy a hearty meal with bottles of alcohol produced from smuggled caches ("Where's this from, Warden Tebok?" "From my emergency supplies, sir!" "Okay, how many of you seriously smuggled in a bottle of wine?" "I think all of us, sir. Except for Warden Tebok. He's brought four dozen."). I barely know half of these guys, but that doesn't stop any of us from sharing a brilliant party.

The guests are decidedly gloomy, with some were already packing to return home. The Chantry heralds stand around in a circle, whispering quietly. They are creepy. It's never a good idea to look like you're going to sacrifice a virgin, especially in front of a skeptic like me.

I am not an Andrastian. I used to be. Then I wasn't. Then I was again… and now I'm just confused. I guess I still believe in the Maker… but I have difficulty praying. Still, I understand the power of the Chantry, and Faith. I've seen that, too.

After the party dies down, I surgically untangle myself from the mountain of passed out Wardens and make my way to my tent. The Mouse Ears agent is already gone. I take my casual time, walking around the tent to collect my belongings. I package my inventory into a large rucksack, walk around for one last time, and make my way to camp gates. Few sober Wardens wave, and I wave back.

Tal stands in the shadow, her figure reduced to a dark outline of reflected moon-shine. Sigrun seem unfazed by their drastic height difference as she stands beside her. She wears a new set of Grey Warden scout armor, with the iconic blue chainmail and silver Griffin breastplate. She also has a Legion of the Dead symbol on her shoulders, a custom edition from her Legionnaire days. Her back stows two double-edged axes, uniquely Sigrun (using her name as an adjective is always perfectly apt), placed so as to not to interfere with her rucksack. Funnily enough, her bag size is almost identical to Tal's. By the look on her face, Sigrun had obviously tried to talk to her new companion and failed.

"Commander! No, sorry. It's not Commander anymore. I don't know what to call you now." Sigrun chirp brightly.

"Just Warden Amell. But we've known each other long enough to drop formalities outside the Order, Sigrun." I reply, nodding at Tal that ends in a one-way greeting.

"You're right, I guess. It's been eight years already. Phew! Time flies when you're dead! Really though, what should I call you?" Sigrun ask.

"People usually have names for that purpose, you know? Casor. Or Amell. Both are fine. At convenient times, Hero, but try avoiding that. You know exactly what I am talking about." I answer with a smile.

"I do. That was funny back then. We should do that again sometime. Alright. Cas-or? Ca-sor? Amell. Amell! That's easier to say. I'll stick to that."

Sigrun flicks an uncomfortable glance at the Qunari, and her expression begging me to help. I force down a snicker.

"I believe official greetings are in order! Tal, this is Sigrun, a Legion of the Dead scouts-women and a Senior Grey Warden. Sigrun, this is Tal, agent of the Mouse Ears and our guide."

They shake hands uncomfortably, and only because the situation calls for a handshake. Just as things start to get awkward again, a loud clang surprises me. Tal immediately puts her hand on her belt – a hilt of a dagger, I suspect.

"Andraste's a-, no I shouldn't say that. Groan. Oh look. Hello!"

A figure emerges from the shadows. It is a full Templar armor, child-size, complete with full-face helmet, Templar shield and Templar mace. This armor also tots a rucksack comparable to that of Tal and Sigrun's, though plastered almost childishly with Chantry symbols. I react without thought, summoning a fireball in my hands, shaking off the spell before anybody notices.

As they say, you can take a Mage out the Circle, but you can't take the Circle out of a Mage.

"Greetings. I am Casor Amell, as you may know already. And you are…"

The figure approaches me slowly, as if approaching a dangerous animal. There is something unnerving about this Templar's movements.

"Sinnan. Sinnan Surana. You must be the robe. Hero of Ferelden, as they say." The Templar squeaks. His voice is unnaturally high, much like a child who first learnt how to read the Chant.

"That is an old title. I presume you are the one that the Chantry heralds chose?"

"Yes. I am the Messenger of the Chant of Light. It is a holy burden, one that I hope to fulfill to the best of my ability. By Maker's blessing, I will do so." Sinnan continued, his voice nagging my ears. It's worse than the noise of a deepstalker, and that's saying something.

"Surana… That's an elven name." I inquire.

"And what if I am? Do you have a problem with elves, mage?"

What? An elven Templar? That's not possible… Elves can't be a Templar! The Chantry is racist… they would never allow an elf to join Templar ranks, nor would any Templar call elf brethren. Yet here he is, an elven Templar… How? This Sinnan might be the first elven Templar – ever.

That's how I'm trying to justify this strange man. In reality, I'm debating on cutting off his head.

"Oh no no no. Definitely not. I'm surprised – honored, actually – to meet an elven Templar. Welcome to the group." I reply, mustering as much friendliness as I can. Sinnan grunts in response.

"Why are we standing here? If we are leaving, we should leave." Tal interjects. She does have a point.

"Yes. Let's re-do our official introductions. I am Warden Casor Amell. Either Casor or Amell is fine."

I nod to Sigrun, who takes the cue.

"My turn. I am Warden Sigrun. I don't have a house name. Just Sigrun is good."

"I am referred to as Tal."

"I am Templar Sinnan Surana, Messenger of the Chant of Light. I am with you to serve the Maker, and not a robe."

I sigh. This is one crazy die-hard Templar.

A Qunari, a dwarf, a human, and an elf walks into ashes… so this is how this story starts. I wonder how it would end?

Hello, it's been some time, hasn't it? Of course, everyone would have thought this was one of those 'dead fics' and filed it away into wasted time. Haha! You're wrong, because I've been spending time revising the whole thing. Now, as version 1.1, the story and the world is better fleshed out, writing revised and revamped, and stupid silly bits cut. The story is slow moving, and that's how I wanted to take this fiction for now. When it speeds up, oh boy it'll speed up, but for the most part, it will be slow.

I won't lie to you – the story will be much harder to decipher. Everything happens for a cause, and everything is mentioned for a reason, but the links will be almost impossible to find. But if you do, then you'll be able to predict the future. I've taken inspirations from many other works and hopefully have improved my writing, too. Most striking feature is the change in perspective, but you'll see why – in Chapter 30ish mark.

Now, I make no promises – the updates will be far and infrequent. But trust me, the story is continuously being written. I hope you enjoy your stay in the West, and the travels with Casor Amell. For the return guests, welcome back! For the newcomers, welcome! Let us begin. - SpartanEngineer