The elf woman at the front of the group was encased in a huge suit of plate armour, which was itself adorned with a crest depicting a huge red dragon, which almost seemed to bleed down the rest of the armour. In either hand she carried vicious looking swords, which seemed to glow with an occult radiance, and were both specked with blood. She moved with an easy grace, and was surrounded with tiny sparkles of magical energy, which crackled across the surface of the armour menacingly.
On one side stood an enormous Qunari, heavily muscled and also encased in a suit of plate armour that made him seem twice the size he really was. He carried an enormous broadsword that was almost as tall as him, and through the visor his eyes were filled with a murderous light. He too was surrounded by magical radiance that caused him to seem to glow, and walked with the prowl of a born warrior and predator.
On the other side of the woman there walked a huge Mabari hound. The woman herself was tall, but the dog easily reached her chest. He bared enormous fangs dripping with saliva and blood in a vicious snarl. His inch-long claws were razor sharp, and looked easily capable of tearing flesh and bone. Beneath skin elegantly decorated with patterns of war-paint, powerful muscles twitched and rippled, ready to spring him into battle at the merest hint of a command from his mistress. A primitive intelligence burned in his eyes.
Finally, at the back of the group stood a raven-haired woman wearing long, hooded robes. She carried a large staff which seemed to pulsate with an un-earthly power, and her eyes almost glowed. She gave the impression that she contained far too much power, and was begging for something to channel it against. Around her, half-visible in the morning light, shimmered a sphere of magical energy and around her hovered tiny bits of rock and earth, which seemed to flit about in response to something.
The Blackstone irregular deserter looked down at his own unarmoured body. He looked at his poor quality longsword. He looked back at his two companions, one similarly unarmoured with a bow that was barely better than a stick with some string on it, the other in battered and faded leather armour with a mace that looked ready to fall to pieces. All of them were tired from being on the run, and none had eaten in days. He looked back at the guild supplies he had stolen and was now guarding with his life, barely more than some potions and ingredients, really not worth much. He looked back at the experienced adventurers in front of him.
"Come on boys, we can take 'em!" He yelled with confidence, bravely charging into battle. His two friends roared their approval and charged in with him.
+50 XP
+50 XP
+50 XP
"Why does no-one ever come quietly?" The party leader asked herself. "Oh…put that down boy, you don't know where it's been!"
The dog dropped the severed arm he'd been chomping, and the party moved on.
FIN
A/N: It always bothered me in Dragon Age that, no matter how well armed and armoured, no matter how many obvious magical effects you had, no matter how famous you were, two-bit bandits and thieves with crappy equipment always thought they were a match for you. Even if there was really no need for them to fight. ESPECIALLY if there was no need for them to fight. This little thing is my response to that.
The party is my standard one from my first playthrough. Female city elf dual-wielding warrior, Sten, Dog and Morrigan.