These are the alternate stories for F!Tabris, M!Brosca, F!Aeducan and M!Mahariel. Where are Cousland and Amell/Surana? Well, Cousland is the Warden of my other fic, 'Kicking and Screaming,' and Amell and Surana are in 'Songbird.' All of these stories will eventually intersect into Kicking and Screaming, as well as later in sequels, but it will not be necessary to read the other fics to understand these stories (nor is it necessary to read these stories to understand any events in the other stories).

I hope you enjoy these non-Duncan recruited origins. I always wish more had been done with them than just snatches of story (if that). So, without further ado, I bring you:

Byroads

Da'Milen had always been…different. Where the others were fair, she was dark; where the others cowered, she played. When the feral dogs would come through the alienage, she would bait them with her hide and make them run after her, long legs skipping over ill-kept cobblestone, tall even so young. The dogs never caught her, the guards never caught her, only her mother could catch her.

Her mother, dark like her, with blue eyes rimmed by black lashes, and hair tangled up in a braid. Da'Milen loved her mother. Adaia would always put a flower in her little girl's hair, light and golden like her father's had been, once, before he'd had to deal with two troublesome women in his life. She would give her sweets and tell her she was the most beautiful little girl in the world.

Her mother was strong, and fast, and she taught Da'Milen the secret of knives. Elves could not wield weapons, it was against the law. But knives were tools, something anyone would need, to cut knots from fishing line, to eat their food, to shave or cut thread, or any other manner of useful things. Knives were the key.

Da'Milen was good with knives. They were not like daggers, which were large and scythed through the air. They were definitely not like swords, or arrows, or any other manner of sharp-edged things. Knives could stab, yes, but they could fly, too. Some could pick locks, others were so small they could be concealed in the weaves of long hair. Knives were sly, and could be deadly or painful or exacting, and so knives were perfect for elves, for a clever little girl and her clever mother. Only Da'Milen and her mother could snicker at the insult knife ears. It was their little joke, the secret they kept when Adaia left in the middle of the night, finger to her lips and a wink to her daughter. It was always after a woman came to their house crying, and her father always sat back, tight-lipped and grim until her mother came home, long after Da'Milen had drifted to sleep.

One night, Adaia did not come home, and her father never quite lost the sadness in his face, not even when he was smiling. Da'Milen never saw happiness reach his eyes ever again, and the young girl soon realized that she had lost two parents that night.

Not to say Cyrion was neglectful, or unloving. He cared for his daughter, loved her, gave her everything, but there wasn't much warmth. Da'Milen emulated that, personified it, but no one could tell. The lovely, exotic elf with the dark skin and the light hair, the cheerful laugh and the ever-ready hug, with the deep chocolate eyes and gentle smile, was everyone's darling, the community's golden child.

A hard thing to explain her 'charade' without sounding callous, certainly.

It wasn't a lack of love for her fellow elves, her family outside of family. It wasn't a harshness, a condemnation or a superiority. It wasn't uncaring or indifferent, nor sad or angry. Her emotions were soft, a trickle, a touch where others expected so much more. She learned this wasn't expected, wasn't wanted, and she exaggerated her feelings, she became what they wanted, and it was good enough.

So when she looped her arm around Soris's shoulders (and she was a half a head taller than her poor cousin) and gave him a smile, telling him not to worry, his bride would be wonderful, the sentiment was real. When they met their betrothed, she didn't worry that she felt nothing for Nelaros past curiosity. Perhaps something would come later, to replace what she had lost. Someone claimed he was a savage fighter; she wondered if he knew about knives.

But Cyrion had warned his daughter not to mention her training, and so she didn't ask. She gave him a smile, told him it was nice to meet him, and that she looked forward to their wedding. It wasn't a lie.

Kol Brosca was a weak, tiny little thing when he was born, and his mother swore that was the reason his father left for the surface. Another baby, another mouth to feed and they could barely put nug in their daughter's belly. Worthless drifter that he was, his father decided he had enough. Let the Stone keep them. He left.

Kol would often ponder, when he was older, why it always was the nobles who begged the Stone for children, but it saw fit to grant them so few, while the casteless begged for no children, and it punished them with too many to keep.

Rica saved him, cared for him, cleaned up after him when he messed himself, went hungry so he could eat. As his mother went deeper and deeper into the bottle, Rica kept him away from her as much as she could. It was only this that kept his bones from being broken along with his skin. The other casteless joked about little black-eyed Kol, the puns far too easy with his name.

Kol did not like being bullied, not at home and not away from it. It sat like a bitter rock in his stomach, a constant desire to push back and mouth off and throw stones until they cracked against skulls. He was a brawler, a real duster, kicking in teeth and breaking fingers for money and revenge.

And then Beraht came.

He was nice to Rica, and Kol had been savvy enough from five years old to know why. He knew why his sister was dressing better and smelling nicer and had tutors and all her teeth. He knew why she went out at night and why she often cried when she came home. He knew why she could keep their mother happy on mosswine and him fed on real meat and sometimes surface bread.

He also knew what it meant when Beraht came over and Rica told him to leave for a while. She always cried after he left.

Kol tried to kill Beraht once, after his sister was crying. He was the worst of bullies, hurting that which he loved more than anything in the world, the one person who saw worth in his life. So he had waited til Beraht left their house, whistling and pleased, and he had jumped him, wailing and swinging with all his might.

Beraht had him in the dirt before the young dwarf even knew what was happening. He was laughing at the young man, telling him how he would kill him, just like that, when Rica saved him again.

She burst from the house and begged Beraht to please, spare her little brother. Kol felt bile mixed in with the blood in his mouth to see his sister, his beautiful, kind, loving sister, reduced to putting mud on her knees to keep his head on his shoulders. But Beraht listened, and stood him up, and told him to keep in line or Rica would pay for it.

Later, he handed him armor and a sword and pointed him to another casteless, another dwarf, and said not a word. Kol knew what was expected of him. So he cut the man down, he watched him die, something he had seen all his life but never actually done, and that man, that scum Beraht, clapped him on the shoulder and told him he would make a real duster of him yet. Kol only nodded.

This was all for Rica. He would do whatever it took to turn things around, so she could stop selling herself, and stop rescuing him. He would take her away from everything, he would figure out how. He would be good for that much.

When the princess was born, all of Orzammar rejoiced. Healthy, strong, with a grip that could crush fingers straight from the womb, her parents lost their hearts to her. Much to little Trian's jealousy.

She was a spitfire, a menace, demanding and exhausting to her caregivers. Her mother took her to task, however, molding her into something devious and beautiful. Porcelain skin, long black hair, proud bearing, and ever the diplomat on the surface. By ten years old, she could recite the names of the noble houses by heart on any given day, a remarkable feat for the rapidly fluctuating world of dwarven politics. She knew her history, she knew who was really in control of everything.

But she was devious, and her machinations were what really drove a wedge between older brother and younger sister. He did not realize it, he only watched in frustration as his traditional views and above-board overtures were thwarted or far too slow. He never knew what got in his way, how she turned things against him, all while playing the role of sweet, supportive sibling. But no one could have expected such a young girl to know who to go to when death needed to be dealt or bribes handled, or that she would even have the stomach for it.

As she grew older, however, she began taking care of her dirty work herself, with Gorim as a willing, love-struck accomplice. She humored him, because he was useful and it was rebellious, and it dug a hook into him he couldn't escape. When the time came she could take their affair and use it to destroy him, if necessary.

Runa even took little Bhelen under her wing, if only to feed him false information. The poor boy was hopelessly lost in the power struggle, thanks to her careful misdirection, and only loving sister Runa could help him out of it. There was plenty of reason to keep him close, and she never wasted her resources.

Besides that, as his brother's second, he could also disrupt poor Trian with his ineptness. She didn't want the throne, not really. Trian could have it. There was power there, but there was more power in being able to manipulate the throne, the deshyrs, even the paragons. Better, however, if there were no paragons, especially not that psychotic cow, Branka.

But it turned out easy enough to remove her problematic disruption from the equation. A few whispered words, and some dusty old scrolls was all it took for Branka to move her entire House out on a death march into the Deep Roads, leaving behind only one drunken, idiot excuse for a husband. Either she found the Anvil and returned, recalling who sent her there in the first place, or she died in the Deep Roads, fodder for the darkspawn.

Runa could see no downside to either outcome, and that was what she preferred.

If Revan Mahariel could have come from the womb cursing, he likely would have. As it was, the elders often drily remarked that he certainly was born with a scowl across his face. He was a sour, colicky child, who always cried and always looked miserable, even when he learned to smile. It was perhaps just the unfortunate arrangement of his features, but the poor boy never looked like he was happy.

He wasn't cruel or unkind, despite being rude and bluntly tactless. But he had no patience and a short temper that blew in a moment and was followed by a terse, frustrated apology. The clan moved on two occasions due to his outbursts alone creating unfortunate misunderstandings with shemlen villages.

Refuge came for Revan in the forests, odd to say for one who lived in the forest his whole life. But in the dark of the trees, deeper than even Tamlen dared follow, Revan would lose himself to the wild, to the beasts and the spirits. The sylvans sheltered him, despite his lack of magic. The wolves welcomed him. The bears let him dance with their cubs, and the spiders watched over him as he slept. There was nothing the young Dalish feared, not here.

Among the clan, that peace vanished. There was never the same sense of rightness there, never the same sense of family. They loved him, as he did them, but it was the love of blood, of familiarity and Revan preferred to do so from afar. Even poor Tamlen, who thought his friend brave and daring to go so far as he did into the dark trees, who idolized the surly elf, was more often an aggravation than enjoyable company.

The Keeper Marethari pitied him. He was an outcast spirit, yearning so strongly for something he could not define. When he brought the bear cub to camp, its mother killed by hunters, she allowed it. And when it came time for his blood writing, she transcribed onto him the half mask in soft greens, announcing his duality for all to see.

By far the most complex and painful of tattoos that could be placed upon an elf's face, yet Revan never flinched.

With the vallaslin upon his face, he was now an adult. He could no longer simply explore in the woods, vanishing for days at a time. He had responsibilities, and he took up the bow. Now he was a scout, alongside Tamlen. He would make reports, chase away shemlen, hunt for the clan.

He felt himself being sucked into the clan, away from his forest, and into the life he had struggled against before the half-mask marked his face.

It terrified him.

So, some introductions! I hope you like them. I'm hoping they're all interesting characters, though I definitely don't expect them to be all likable. We'll see once they actually start talking, though, right?