Ser Garlen's Sword.
"Maker's breath!" Ser Garlen shouted as he opened his eyes to see a hurlock standing over him; a tall humanoid with jagged, filthy teeth, armed with equally jagged and filthy weapons and armor. These creatures, though they are but the traditional footmen of the Darkspawn horde, looked particularly threatening when one was waking up.
It used both hands as it tried to impale the knight with a single thrust, only to trap it in the rocky soil as the seasoned knight rolled out of the way. His vision swam as he tried to get his bearing, only able to focus on haphazardly avoiding his enemy, like a little girl being chased by a boy with a stick (only a sharp, long, metal stick). Reaching his arm out, he felt his shield and pushed himself to his feet. As the darkspawn swung at him again, he blocked the blade and knocked the beast over with his shield. Frantically he looked about for his sword, "Where is it? Where is it!" to no avail. In the dark of night, he saw only the trees, the campfire going and the table he ate off of. In a desperate attempt to find something, he dashed over to the table.
He searched quickly and in a panic, as he heard the darkspawn get back up. "Knife, knife, there has to be a knife!" he repeated constantly in his head, still finding nothing. It was only when he heard the hurlock come near again that he took hold of the first thing his hand touched and rammed it into the monster's eye and twisted his wrist. He felt the claws of the beast thrash futilely at his arm, but it only encouraged Ser Garlen to push harder until it stopped. Once the darkspawn collapsed, and he was certain it was dead, the knight ripped out whatever improvised weapon he had just used. To his amazement, it was his dinner fork. "Brilliant," he thought, "now where's my sword?""Ser Garlen! Ser Garlen!" he heard a familiar voice shout out in the distance, and coming closer. Taking no chances, the soldier stood at the ready with his shield and fork, poised to strike. He relaxed his position when he saw a disheveled, brown haired elf come into the fire's light. "Ah, the elvish messenger, excellent!"
"Pic, it's you!" he whispered in surprised relief.
"Ser Garlen, we're under attack!" the elf yelled panickedly.
"Yes, I've noticed, quick, give me my sword!"
"Y-your sword?" the elf asked in quiet hesitation.
"Yes, my sword, give me my sword!" the knight urged impatiently.
"I...your sword..."
"Yes Pic, give me my damn sword!"
"I...I don't have the sword."
"You don't have the sword!" in a rage he flew at the elf and grabbed him by the collar with both hands. "I need my weapon!"
"I-I-I thought..." Pic whimpered pathetically.
"Not hard enough it seems! What happened to my sword Pic?"
"I...I gave it to..." the elf said, even quieter now...
"YOU GAVE MY SWORD AWAY?" he bellowed, nearly choking Pic, "You can't give away my sword? Who would you give it to? You can't give it to anyone! I don't care if the damn Grey Wardens asked for that sword Pic, I need it and I need it now!"
"S-er...Garlen I -urk!" the messenger barely choked out.
"Damn it Pic, where is it!" he said, tightening his grip even harder.
"I-I-hrrrk..." Pic gurgled, and his eyes rolled to the back of his head.
"Damn it elf!" Garlen muttered, dropping him and letting him collapse to the floor.
Dusting himself off, he looked around, and saw shadows come closer, and the distant shrieks became louder, no longer seeming quite so distant...
"Oh sod it..." Ser Garlen whispered to himself, picking back up his shield and dinner fork. "How did this happen to me? If I get out of this alive, I'm going to the damn Free Marches."