I have tried my best not to trifle in the lives of others. Tis a skill I fear I have not succeeded in as much as I might have hoped. But I cannot say twas all for lost. After all, the last time I stood in the middle of a crumbling world I had met my partner and I can confidently say my life changed for the better. He was the man that exposed me to the good in the world and to those that may also hold the title of hero.
Tis not something obvious – for they do not speak of grandeur and legendary triumphs. Instead it is far more subtle. One must observe how a hero thinks when they do not believe they are being watched in order to see it. Heroes contemplate every angle, every possible result and solution, and no one is ever considered insignificant in their minds. Each request for help – no matter how foolishly trifle – is considered just as important as the last. And almost always, they have their own wounds that cut deep into their souls and bleed out as time passes by. It is only the true heroes that find those to help them heal. And yet, in all of these troubles they do not falter. They hold their heads up even as challenges are thrust upon them and decisions are dropped onto their backs like mountainous boulders. For they know they cannot fail. They know that in all of this that the rest of the world sees them as more than a sword or a well-spoken man. They are a symbol of hope.
My own curiosity had brought me upon a currently dormant hero. With all of the foolish mess between the Templars and mages I had heard of a Conclave in the freezing Frost Mountains of the Free Marches. It was to be held by the great Divine, a glorified middle ground that I believed had far too much power for such an ancient woman. But my opinion was of no importance here. I simply wished to see if any sort of agreement could be made. For the world's sake as well as my own.
The woman I speak of had started at the bottom of the mountains, seeming quite comfortable atop her Ferelden horse. I was never one for the disgusting beasts. Then again, having the ability to transform into a raven nullified my need for such a steed. Either way, the stallion seemed far happier carrying her thin and toned body compared to the ones struggling with her burly male counterparts. The lumpy uniforms were that of mercenaries and yet there was certainly something about her that did not particularly fit with the rest of the group. Her face was furrowed. Her blue eyes were aimed towards the path ahead rather than their destination at the top of the mountain. It was as if she was preparing for the unexpected to happen.
Something about her graceful features looked almost elven but she was in no way petite enough and I could not spot any facial markings to signify her being Dalish. A hood rested on the top of her head, covering any view of her ears with only a few wisps of unnaturally colored waves drifting out into the wind.
"Parker!" The man in the front called, his uniform far more intricate as he twisted in his saddle towards her. Immediately her attention shifted and her heel dug gently into her mount's side to trot up to her commander. "Scout up ahead. I want to make sure the Chantry still knows we're coming." She nodded, no hesitation, no worry about heading out on her own as her horse was nudged again into a faster gallop up the steep path.
I followed for some time, gliding gently with the wind, noticing her hood falling away to expose thick blond hair, her ears still hidden by the strands. But then I stopped, a chilling sensation settling into my bones. It was not from the cold. It was from the sudden wave of darkness. Of pain. Of fear. Of evil. For there is a sensation everyone feels at the arrival of such forces. The moment when their hairs stand on end or a seemingly random shiver trickles down their spine. Tis not something simply known to mages, but it is a sensation we can certainly sense more, only second possibly to that of Grey Wardens. Either way I found myself staring up at the tall towers of the Temple of Sacred Ashes and then back at the young woman heading further up the mountain. Her time to awaken was quickly arriving. It was something I made note of as I turned away from my original goal and headed for the safety of home. I knew no peace would be made today.
Despite my own retreat, the woman continued up to the mountain, pulling her horse to a skidding halt and hopping gracefully off. She too felt uneasy, especially at the lack of people. They had passed many villagers at the base of the mountain but during her trip up they had diminished to absolutely nothing. Even the Templars and mages were nowhere to be found and the fact that her horse was now bucking and straining to get away seemed to worry her more.
Reins slipped from her fingers and the stallion galloped back down the mountain, curses flowing from the woman in one long breath. Her accent exposed her close relation to the city streets of the Free Marches. Cautiously, she opened the main door, finally hearing voices echoing behind it. But then her world went black and Parker felt as if she had been forced into a dream, stumbling about in an unknown world. She ran towards a bright light, fear being the only thing that kept her from looking over her shoulder. The light sharpened into an outstretched hand that Parker reached for, her eyes unable to focus anymore as the light exploded and darkness soaked in around her once again.
She had not been a mercenary for very long. In fact, from what I was told, Parker had been a street performer the majority of her life. Traveling from town to town to entertain crowds of dozens from the lowest of beggars to the Empress herself. Parker was an acrobat, trained to bend and twist with great amounts of flexibility. Building an immense amount of stamina and endurance due to her constant tumbling. When the rebellions began to plague the world, she was able to shift into the title of mercenary with ease. Her methods were based from the streets but contained the odd collection of proper training one might learn from noble tutors. Parker was a woman of many mysteries and I am certainly not one that would wish for such light to shine upon my own past. Yet, when looked at logically, there was danger always involved between bandits and disgruntled audiences as a performer. It was important to know how to defend her person and her fellow showmen in any way possible. It was enough to get the job done and done well enough for her commander to approve of.
When Parker finally did blink awake, the smell of damp stone lingered in her nose as she shifted slowly. Her hands had been bound in wooden shackles and her knees looked swollen and pulsed in pain against the floor. It was understandable for questions to begin bouncing around in her skull. Pieces of hair fell into her face as she looked at the guards stationed around her. Their tension and fear was clearly shown by the clink of their shifting armor. But suddenly a loud snap caught her attention and pain rippled through her body.
Doubling over, her eyes looked down at her left hand, the source of her agony as she slowly peeled her fingers open. It exposed a scar, green, glowing, and clearly nothing of this world. She yelped as another wave of pain rippled up her arm. Her whole body trembled like it was on fire, the mark growing brighter as if blood was seeping out of her palm from a knife wound. With her teeth gritted she tried to ignore the pain, as so many people like her tried. And just as her muscles started to ease the large wooden door at the far end of the room opened.