Authors Note: Welp, that's the first chapter down. For those curious, the origins will cover two to three chapters a piece depending on the origin, and will go in this order: Magi, Dwarf Commoner, Dwarf Noble, (Jory chapter), Human Noble, (Daveth), City Elf, Dalish Elf.

Post any constructive comments you have. Also, out of curiosity, would you like the inclusion of the Elf mage as well? Just a thought.
I do not own Dragon Age. Everything involved is the intellectual property of Bioware and others contributing to the franchise, and I profit in no way other than self gratification.

Chapter 1: Dimensions of Dreams

The apprentice quarters were quiet, and for good reason. At either end of the dormitory, Senior Enchanters stood, staffs aloft, holding a shroud of sleep over the unsuspecting youths. Two templars, dressed in light armor, shuffled until they found the correct bed and carefully slid the youth from it. Taking a shoulder each, they took him away.

Daylen Amell woke up in a small, stone room on a comfortable feather bed, and bit down the urge to yell. The fact he had not woken up in his usual bed meant only one thing. He had been taken in the night for his Harrowing. Every few weeks, an apprentice would vanish from their beds. Some of them would eventually be found back in their beds, delivered by templars. Others would only be seen from the tower windows as the burning raft was set out on the lake.

Daylen knew that, after he had awakened, he would be given two hours to prepare himself. There was a washtub for cleaning himself, which he did. His black, neck length hair and small beard were both washed with worried, wringing hands, and he obsessivly scrubbed his pale skin with the lye soap provided, on the slightly hysterical notion that he would die of embarrasment if he left a bad smelling corpse.

A plain, white robe was folded on the end of the feather bed, and he donned that. It hung from his rather slim body, and he hugged it around himself. A small tray of sandwiches had been left on the floor next to the bed, and Daylen quickly downed four of them, not pausing to taste whatever the sandwiches held. The entire process of preparing himself had taken about 15 minutes, leaving him an hour and forty-five minutes left, presumably for him to either meditate or beat himself to death with a sandwich platter. Daylen, noting the platter was china and probably not very durable, went for the first option.

Daylen had been born in the tower, according to his file. The child to two mages. His father was actually apparently a noble man from the northern Free Marches, in the city of Kirkwall. He had been killed by the templars for the use of blood magic, or so it said, before he had even been born. Daylen officially had no last name, but he took his father's name unofficially. It was something to hold on to. Of his mother, he had no idea, though she was also apparently a mage as well. For the first five years of his life he was raised by the chantry priestesses in the nursery with other children to mages in the tower. Those of his playmates who showed no sign of magic eventually were dedicated to the temple, becoming the priestesses and templars that would one day fill the roles of the same people who oppressed their parents. The rest of the children would be taken into study.

Daylen had been confirmed a mage at age three, when he had somehow managed to levitate himself to the top of a bookcase. From ages five through thirteen, he received his basic academic training, and was kept on a strict regiment of a special potion that, until puberty, would dampen his magical abilities. However, when the teenage years struck, along with racing hormones and uncomfortabe developments came the sparking of lightning from his hands and a small period in his fifteenth year in which the area directly ahead of him would freeze solid whenever he sneezed, which made his winter monthes rather uncomfortable for both him and the people he sat behind in classes.

Now, at the age of 25, he was completing his basic magical studies. Of course, now his basic magical studies were done for good. Should he suceed, Daylen would move into the mages quarters on the second floor and spend his days working on developing spells, teaching apprentices, brewing potions and experimenting. Then he would, hopefully, live to an old age and die in his sleep. Should he fail his Harrowing, Daylen would be killed, his body possessed by a demon from a realm beyond comprehension, which would then be killed by templars. His disfigured corpse would then be mutilated further, set out on a raft onto the lake and burned from the shore, just to be safe.

Daylen had been a good student, dutiful in his studies, primarilly out of fear of becoming an abomination. When he was not studying, Daylen would often prowl the library for interesting books. Otherwise, he would run favors for his senior mages, delivering messages and collecting things from the stock room in order to help. He was not at all outgoing with the opposite sex, though he did have female friends. He dabbled slightly in humor but never at the expense of learning, like some of his classmates. He also had a slightly annoying habit obsessing over the proper steps in his work, and became easilly flustered and embarassed. He was not to the level of neuroticism, though, like Wendell, an apprentice his senior who was in the habit of throwing up whenever he experienced stress. Wendell had vanished one night and, the next morning, the apprentices watched as the raft was set aflame.

Lying on the feather bed, looking over the last twenty five years of his life, Daylen resisted the urge to cry. Within hours, he could be dead, struck down by the templars. He had never finished that tome of poetry in the library. Never been with a woman. Never stepped off the island of the circle tower. Oh how he wished he could have seen the world before this day had come.

At this point, the door to the chamber of meditation opened, and in stepped Knight Commander Gregoir and a younger templar by the name of Cullen. Gregoir had the air of familiarity that worried Daylen, as if it would not matter whether or not Daylen suceeded, as it would be life as usual for him. Cullen, at the very least, looked just as sick as Daylen. Daylen guessed that it would be Cullen's first Harrowing as well, and that he would be the one to strike Daylen's body down should he fail.

They arrived at the Harrowing Chamber via the spiral staircase, and Daylen was momentarilly awed. The glass windows gave a magnificant view of Lake Calenhad by night. However, before each glass window stood a templar, watching him with expressions varying between encouraging smiles, dissaproving frowns, and cold calculation. In the center of the room stood a familiar face, that of First Enchanter Irving.

First Enchanter Irving and Knight Commander Gregoir stood side by side, forming an interesting contrast of two men who had spent their entire lives within the circle tower. Gregoir had been the son of a templar and his wife, and had grown up to follow in his father's footsteps. He was broad of shoulder and still in good form for a man pushing his sixties, with a neatly trimmed grey beard and hair. Irving, meanwhile, was brought to the tower at a young age, and had been promoted to Senior Enchanter for his discovery of medicine to help fight a disease known as Lyriastroph, in which lyrium introduced into the bloodstream begins to transfigure vital bodilly fluids into more lyrium. His discovery saved the lives of many dwarves, templars, and mages, and secured his position for life. His own hair and beard were long and unkempt, as though he had just awoken. Though he always looked that way, it gave Daylen some small hope that this wasn't simply a routine he was going through.

"Magic is meant to serve man, and never to rule over him." Gregoir began, pacing before Daylen. "Thus spoke the prophet Andraste as she cast down the Tevinter Imperium." he continued. Daylen nodded, well aware of the history behind the chantry. Every resident of the tower, barring the Tranquil, were forced to spend four hours on the first day of every week to worship. "Your magic is a gift, but it's also a curse. Demons of the fade are drawn towards you, to use your power to breach the barrier between worlds and let themselves into ours. Should they do so, you shall perish, and become an abomination."

"As a test of your skills, you are to take the Harrowing." Irving now spoke, his own voice low and rough from years of a chronic throat disease. "You are to enter the fade, and prove yourself worthy by confronting a demon. Should you suceed, you shall become a full mage of the circle. Should you fail, you shall perish." His tone, while grave, was encouraging. He sounded, at the very least, as though he saw this as more than a bothersome chore.

Irving directed Daylen's gaze towards the center of the room, where a bowl sat perched upon a stand. The bowl was filled with a glowing blue liquid, and gave off steady light through the chamber. "This is Lyrium, and it will act as your gateway into the fade. You must go armed only with your will. To begin your harrowing, you must simply touch the lyrium. Maker watch over you, my child."

With that, Gregoir, Cullen and Irving all stepped back, leaving Daylen alone in the center of the room. Swallowing once, he stepped up to the bowl of Lyrium and brushed his hand over the surface. He was unconcious before his body hit the floor.

Well, this seems as good of a place for a scene break as any. For every origin story, I'll be including a little prelude that leads into the opening of the story. Just to help get all that pesky character establishment out of the way. Thank you for reading, and please comment!