No Rest For the Good

Darien Tabris sighed with exhaustion as he entered his home in the Denerim Alienage, having just spent nearly the entire day working the docks. It was hard, menial labor, but he preferred that to the sort of thing he'd been forced to do in years past. Better this than constant battling against the darkspawn.

After King Alistair's noble death in defeating the archdemon, Darien had tried his best to avoid becoming famous and known. He insisted his fellows go back to treating him like just another elf in the alienage, not some sort of hero. Though he'd once taken a fair bit of pleasure in rather theatrical displays of heroism- particularly in his rescue of the women of the Alienage, which he conducted in his wedding clothes because they looked sort of princely- now, he resigned himself to the quiet life.

Surprised at the lack of pitter-pattering of small feet approaching him, Darien's brow furrowed, soft green eyes showing his worry. That's strange... Lyla and Nesiara should be home now, unless there's some note I've missed...

He cast a sharp eye around the main living area of his small, cramped apartment, and found no signs of any life. He ran a now somewhat bony hand through his greying brown hair to keep it out of his face as he began examining the small apartment.

As he rounded the one corner in the cramped space, a startled tenor gasp fled from his lips. Lying on the pitiful excuse for a mattress was Nesiara, her light blonde hair stained with blood. All light and life had left her eyes, which were now half-lidded. Her stomach and her coin purse had both been slit open.

Maker, no... Darien thought to himself. No, no, no, no, no! This can't be happening... This shouldn't be happening...

He'd warned her not to come back to him, that living with him would be dangerous after what he had done. Anora might have granted him amnesty, but the guard was not so forgiving. Being together would be dangerous. But Nesiara returned regardless. And worried though he'd been at first, his worries were eclipsed in happiness when he heard she was with child. Though it was rather clear the child was not his by blood due to the difficulty Grey Wardens had in conceiving, he still cared for Little Lyla as if she were his own blood. They were his family.

And now, someone had robbed him of the ones he cared about the most. There was no trace of Lyla in the apartment, meaning she was gone already. Though who had robbed his wife of her life and spirited away his daughter, Darien had no idea. Perhaps the guards finally saw a way to gain their vengeance. Perhaps the Tevinters had found a way to return, using the corruption in the capital to re-establish their sick slave trade. Shianni had been the loudest activist- and she'd been the first to vanish when people began to disappear. And now whoever was causing the disappearances had his daughter.

It was in the dark and bloody vengeance brewing in the back of his mind that Darien began to hear the first strains of a sinister melody. It was unlike any music he'd ever heard, ever played as a bard. The closest thing he had ever heard to it was the voice of the Brecilian Forest, but even that did not compare to the strange, eerie, unearthly song which now echoed through his mind.

Somehow I knew it was coming. he thought grimly, standing up. The nightmares... I thought they were just remnants of the stress and the trials of the past, but now I'm certain that this is it. My Calling.

He crossed to the chest in the corner of the room, pulling open the broken lock and opening it. Within the chest was a set of leather armor, two daggers, an intricate Dalish longbow and a quiver of arrows said to be blessed by Andraste. He let a broken sigh escape his lips before he began moving as he had not for ten years and donning a suit of armor and weapons.

Once dressed, he knelt by the bed and examined a powder which lay on the floor. He sniffed it briefly, and the sharp influx of arcane energies he felt made him realize precisely what it was. Lyrium dust. Usually only carried around by templars who need to subdue a magic-user. No one know for certain who Lyla's father is. She could be of magical blood. But even if she is a mage, there is no justification in killing a mother to rip the child from her arms.

He knew his course now. He rose from his kneeling position with a glint of determination in his eyes that had not been there for years.

I don't know or care who you are, Templars. Or why you've taken my daughter. he thought, drawing and examining his dagger. It seemed just the right sharpness for gutting a few tin-plated zealots. But know this. I will hunt you down for this. And when I find you, the ones who destroyed my family, I will kill you.

He took a moment to whistle for his lupine familiar before setting off, a sense of power and purpose flooding him which he had not felt since the death of the archdemon. I hear the voice of the Old God, but that is not my true Calling. This... He thought back to the faces of his beloved and their child. This is my true Calling. And if I face my death here, then so be it.

It was with this thought in mind that he left for the Circle of Magi on Lake Calenhad, leaving behind him the warm, pleasant memories of the family life he could have had.