AN: I dont even know why I wrote this. All remember was that is was 2 am in the morning, I had glass of some strange herbal tea, and my fingers were typing away like mad. Maybe a one-shot, maybe not. Might be good, might not. I do know one thing though:

I've got REALLY got to stop taking inspiration from sarcastic brits.

Twenty years old today. Woo.

Yeah, I'm ecstatic. Really. Knowing that I was just popped out of a vagina big enough to swallow a small village with 300 other fellows is really comforting to me really. I still behold the beloved memories of suddenly being given a sword barely after being born, being told that I should start swinging it a lot until I hear strange gushy sounds. And it's nice to know after twenty years of groveling in a never-ending tunnel filled with angry midgets, I get to live another few years of the same exact thing before going out in a flame of pretty colors.

I'm Tom. I'm a Hurlock, by the way. And I've realized a few things.

Now, personally, I'm usually not the type to contemplate my naval and go into psychological foreground whenever I come across a piece of toast. But I aside from a few awkwardly disproportioned doodles, what else could I possibly fill a journal with? So what better than the observation of meaning and purpose. That always seems to get everyone's knickers in a twist.

By the way, a Hurlock is a darkspawn. Yes. Those cranky old fellows.

To be honest, being a darkspawn isn't all that it's cracked up to be. Though, I believe I've never actually come across anyone who has actually ever appealed to the idea, aside from perhaps a few eccentric cannibals or the vicious killing sort. With them, I'm sure it's all shits and giggles and lollipops. Even then, it sure gets rather tedious and boring really fast.

I'm also pretty sure that were the most expendable thing since bricks were invented.

Oh, why do you think we have mothers that compete with the size of whales? I'm sure as hell it isn't for aesthetics. We were born to run ourselves into sharp objects. Maybe we'll squeal and flail a sword around before doing so, but that is pretty much the goal of it all. For the violent type, it's all probably fun, but there's absolutely no doubt that in one second, without even knowing, you'll run into a fellow with extensive knowledge of fireballs.

We weren't built to kill. We were built to be killed.

Now, if that hasn't already gotten your jollies all up, life before that point isn't really the most exciting. Oh, shocking. Really, the only variation in our fantastic flailing lives diverges into two roads. The rest that spring off from each is just how creatively you'll be dismembered.

Perhaps you decide to wander the surface. First you're all "Wow, everything is so spacious. And slightly less brown. Holy shit, what's that fluffy stuff? What's that doing all the way up there?" It's all rather thrilling, what with all the air and the . . . well, air. Maybe they'll also be some tall green and brown structures and some big-ass candle in the sky, but aside from that, I'm sure the excitement of it all dies down pretty fast. There's also the fact that everyone up there is actually more than 4 feet tall, which does come as a problem. As well as the fact there are grey wardens. Much like us, but without all the malevolent rage, deadly hunger, and lack of dental hygiene. Not so much the fact their actually any more powerful than the next group, but more so for their dedication. They apparently have darkspawn blood cocktail parties on Wednesdays and use our skulls for bowling on Fridays. Now while all those activities all sound rather delightful, I would prefer to do it with all my head and bodily fluids intact, thanks.

Second line of work would to be to stay amongst the masses underground, the one in which I've been so wonderfully graced with. It's where most of us pitted within, left to run through tunnels and poke the occasional inanimate midget. Really the second you crawl from your mother's cavernous fetus of mystery; it's all left up in the air for us. Motivation? Well, we're alive, so we should probably do some things. Justification? We do get hungry. Other than nicely seasoned rocks, living flesh is the next best thing. Survival? Hey, instincts and a reproductive system is all you really need. We live because we look at fellow and think "Hm, I wonder what he would be like with a side of butter." Or a girl and think "Oh, she's pretty. I wonder how pretty she'll be when she's 10,000 pounds above weight with a set breast growing everywhere fricking possible".

Don't let any of our past history or battle strategy fool you. We only got where we were because a slightly smarter fellow said "No, you don't stick your sword there, you stick it there".

So, I come to a conclusion. In the end, we really are just animals. The only difference is that we have opposable thumbs and really crappy population control. Sure, there's a blight once in a while, and everyone's squealing like school girls on meth. But it's no different. The archdemon is still just an animal but with anger management issues and inflammatory morning breath. In other cultures, I'm sure he's an almighty god of some sort, but would a god really let a group of fellows with horrible skin conditions and a case of mega herpes just take himself over like that? And in any case, he never actually succeeds. In one second, his command could go from "Barricade the warden and try to flank them from the back" to "Ow ow ow sword ow ow ow."

Nothing all too fancy, just animals. And like an other animal posed as a nuisance, we're put down. That's how it is with just about any animal.

Unless we were pandas. But fuck pandas.

Though of course, we press on. Why? Because instinct looks at logic and than thinks "Hey, that looks like a convenient thing to piss on." It's the only thing to rely on since there really isn't anything else to do besides go on crazy suicidal kamikaze mission every other weekend. And no silly chantry can make up an actual coherent explanation, unless it involved illegal substances and interpretational dance.

Perhaps I'm just jaded. I'm just venting out frustration into some journal I found next to a dead guy. Hell, I feel as I though I've only become recently sentient of my own being just a few a hours ago for unknown reasons, some unknown force. But it came to me that for twenty years, I've scooped up ogre droppings and snacked on strangely shaped limb pieces for no real apparent reason or purpose. And for once that has bothered me.

I considered taking it up with an authority, but then it dawned on me that authority was pretty much determined by who could shout incoherently about vegetables for longest amount while looking crossed. So that idea was scratched.

I might as well compile it all into a statement then; I don't like being a darkspawn. Now, before you scream, "NO really?" in a not all obnoxiously sarcastic tone, realize that this has never really crossed my mind before. I feel extremely confused, yet at the same time, I see things more clear light, if that even makes any sense. This feeling of thought, clarity, rationalization, it all seems together. Like I can actually do something now.

I've also realized I'm kind of a jack ass. Thanks journal.