I don't hate easily. I just have trouble holding on to my resentment when- past the heat of the moment- I find little left but pettiness and wounded pride. I suppose I should count myself lucky; I have rarely received such a grievous wound that I could not forgive the one who'd inflicted it.

I do have point to my rambling, you see, I've just been killed. And eaten. And I'm not quite sure how to feel about it. I think I should feel furious, there was no warning and I still had so much to do, and in that last desperate moment before consciousness was torn from me, all I felt was terror and pain.

I know that I died on that hill. I was tired and bleeding and on the unfortunate end of the food-chain. Fuck.

I think I have a phobia of bears now. Or maybe of carnivores in general. Or the whole fucking wilderness.

I would very much like to be home and in bed, waking from the most horrifyingly vivid nightmare of my life, but if getting beaten to death didn't wake me, I'm not holding much hope for a pinch doing the trick.

Fuck! Fucking fuckity fucksticks!

I want to kill something.

I want to curl in on myself so tightly that I just fold away into nothing.

I want to feel like I have the slightest control over my situation, like there's a damned thing I can do to go home, like I won't just end up dead again the next time I try to find shelter.

I can't do any of those things though, so I'll just keep shivering inside the wreck of my old Honda; staring at twin moons in an unfamiliar sky.

…

Morning comes.

I haven't slept, but I don't feel tired.

Maybe this time.

…

It's not courage that pushes me out of my seat, but thirst. I need to drink something, or I'll be in trouble. I don't know why I didn't stay dead, but I'm not comfortable with relying on whatever brought me back, nor am I sure that such a process won't show side-effects eventually. Of course, all of that is secondary to the fact that, more than any time before, I do not want to die. I do not want to feel my pain replaced by numbness, to find myself waking yet again in that godforsaken wreckage.

So I'll go look for water, dehydration is a far more certain death than whatever wildlife might still be moving about in the middle of the noon.

…

Ha! Hahaha! Oh, heh- this, this is almost poetic!

I look down the slope and see jagged outcroppings of ice; earth scorched clean, mutilated bodies littering the valley. I think this place was beautiful once, what remains of that is tainted by the promise of violence that hangs in the air.

I always did want more adventure in my life.

Why wasn't I happy with mediocrity? Why did I keep hoping for excitement, for an adventure out of a story? Why did someone decide that I deserved this? I got what I wanted; damn me.

At least I know where I am now.

Fuck.

…

Well, "Day Two" and all that.

I learned something interesting today. Fire is probably worse than bears.

My experiences with both were over shortly (is it fucked up that I'm glad I've died with haste?) so I can't say for certain, but yeah; fire is probably worse than bears.

Also, it seems that my reset only takes me a day or so back. I'm glad that I don't have to make the trek in its entirety, but worried by the implication that I might find myself stuck on a very bad day for the rest of eternity. I suppose that eventuality is a little far off for it to preoccupy me now.

I'll have to be more careful, still. I have little desire to give the Templars a chance to catch up to Team Mage in the "Bag a Benjamin" contest (current score: 1-0).

And, god, I hope I never even see a demon.

…

Day Three: I saw some fucking demons.

…

Day Four: I finally found a path out of that mess. It looks like the Inquisitor, whoever (whatever) they are, has at least visited Redcliffe. If I'm lucky (Ha! Ha Ha Ha!) I've landed after that whole fiasco with the Tevinters has been handled. I do not relish the thought of surviving a year's wait for the Inquisitor to get back. (Who knows how long I'd take to actually live through the whole thing, never mind how little sanity I'd likely have left at that point.)

I'm getting better at skirting the violence of these madmen; by necessity, I've also learned to hold down my squeamishness at rifling through the belongings of the dead for supplies. Heaven (what does that word even mean now?) knows I won't be catching any of the wildlife to eat myself; I'll have to hope the rations I've found are fresh enough to sustain me for the trip.

…

Day Five: I didn't die! I might finally be getting the hang of this.

…

Day Six: Never mind.

…

Day Nine

There's a small army camped in front of Redcliffe.

I think it's Fereldan, the emblems and armor seem reminiscent of what I can remember.

Time to bite the bullet. (Hah, if only there was a Qunari nearby, someone might understand that! Though on second thought; I could probably live with confusion, if it meant avoiding the Qun.)

…

"Wait. A wavy-haired man, with strange garb, spectacles, and an ill-trimmed beard; you're him, aren't you? You're the one the Herald's looking for"

What?

"What? I mean, I beg your pardon, where did you hear that particular title?" And who the hell gave it to me?

The soldier (officer?) gives me a narrow look, hesitating, then replies: "The herald mentioned you when she was leaving, something about a 'scruffy shem, one that knows more than he should'." He pauses awkwardly, before continuing. "One of her companions filled in the details."

Huh. Guess I wasn't lucky after all. The only way a woman (an elf?) I've never met, could possibly know me-

Well, I'm glad I don't have to live with the memories, that much I can summon gratitude for.

I realize I've been standing there with my mouth hanging open when the officer (I think?) shifts from suspicion to concern. "The conflict has only slowed in the last few days, were you injured on your way to Redcliffe?"

Not as you'd notice, no.

"Ah! My apologies; I'm afraid I've not slept well lately, and your question caught me off guard." All in? "Perhaps I- I might be." All in.

I shake myself from my doubts and nod firmly. "Yes, I suppose I must be." There's only one way forward, I'll need expert help to have any hope of getting home, and the inquisition has the only experts likely to give it. "Are there any Inquisition forces in the area? Or anyone else likely to help me find my way to S- to Haven?" (Will Haven still stand when I reach it?)

The officer seems unconvinced by my assertion of well-being but gives a passing soldier orders to lead me to the inquisition camp nearby, as soon as their current duties are completed.

I shadow the soldier for half an hour (delivery work it seems) then we depart.

…

The scout on site certainly recognizes me (or rather, matches me to my description) and is hustling together packs for the both of us before I have the chance for as much as an introduction.

Time passes slowly, then quickly (and most importantly, quietly), and we make our way out of the Hinterlands.