The Order of the Gray Wardens
Awakening
Summary: Seven-hundred years prior to King Cailin's reign over Ferelden, another Blight challenged the land.
Disclaimer: The characters of Dragon Age: Origins and concepts used in this work of fanfiction belong to David Gaider and BioWare. I merely dabble in the world, using a part of lore that was not explored in game. This piece of fanfiction is based solely on the video game Dragon Age: Origins and not on any of the books written by David Gaider that belong to the same series.
A man stood before the dreamer. He was tall, dressed in silver armor, and he held his sword at the ready. He looked pained. A roar filled the air, but the dreamer saw nothing save for the man's pale, haunted gray eyes. Pain coursed through the reamer, threatening to rip them in two. The man only watched as black blood dripped from the end of his sword.
The dreamer awoke. She thrashed on her bed, gasping for air. Even as she sat up, the human woman felt the remains of pain linger in her body. She ran her hand through her hair, pushing a few dark strands out of her face.
Always those eyes.
They would haunt her until the end of her days, she was certain of that. If she knew what manner of beast would strike at her, the dreams would not be so terrifying, but she could never look away from those eyes.
Sleep would not return to her any time soon, she knew, so the woman rose from the bed. She crossed her hut and knelt by the fire pit. Her hand extended, hovering over the dry branches that were arranged there. A spark emitted from her palm, and a flame danced in the pit the next moment. She sat down and closed her eyes, trying to will her dream into her wakened mind. It had visited her a thousand times, yet she could only see those gray eyes and that silver armor.
She gave a frustrated sigh, but her irritation was cut short. Someone knocked the door of her hut.
For a moment, she remained still. The knock came again, faster this time. The woman rose and went to the door. When she opened it, a man staggered forward. Her heart skipped a beat as she saw his clothes. He was dressed in ornate silver armor. She offered herself as support while guiding him to her bed. His wounds were severe, but a spell or two coupled with herbs and rest would see him fully recover within a day.
"Who are you?" she asked, breathless.
"Kryssa Zinovia?" he replied.
The woman frowned as she helped him recline on the bed. "I am she." She touched his cheek. "Rest, sir. We shall talk once your wounds are healed."
He looked at her for a moment before his eyes fluttered and he passed out. Kryssa felt curious and strangely disappointed that the eyes she had stared into were a very dark brown.