(self-portrait; detailing a jagged and dark wyvern tattoo)
We set out to escape from the Deep Roads. The spoils of our conquests in tow. Asides from the Anvil, we had looted a considerable sum of gold, gems, materials and other artifacts from our excursion in the darkspawn infested deep and through our initial fittings in preparation for the journey. Our primal mage had found a girder defending him from deaths that had occurred to their previous owners, a staff that could summon a great invisible water craft, another staff of some power, and cloth armor with a headdress providing some mysterious boons. The dwarf obtained a katar like blade with a bladed defensive hilt contraption. I gave him my serrated blade when he professed a desire to dual wield it with another weapon. The other fighters obtained some weapons and armor of varying quality in the Deep Roads but obtained their most valuable fittings during our trip to Orzammar. Their arms and armor were of great strength and enchantment; an axe imbued with a mighty flaming ability and armor with improved fortitude against melee attacks. My interests were fairly frugal; taking for my own but a small nugget of lyrium I found amidst the rubble of the demolished golem and a beautiful obsidian tablet with the likeness of a dragon on it. A small compartment at the bottom of the tablet caught my attention. I remember setting the lyrium nodule inside out of curiosity: what followed could only have been a dream. The dragon upon the tablet came alive, slid up my arm akin to a living tattoo, and snaked up to my face. A searing pain. I wake up from this dream many times. It besets even my meditation and reveries. I wake up from sheer force of will. The tablet was shattered, obsidian slivers everywhere, the lyrium and compartment no where to be found.