Dragon Age: A Sword of Glass

From Roïn’s Journal

“Traveling: Werefish, The Mages’ Collective”

A blur of memories; encounters, people, and landscape. I do not remember much. I know my name, I know not my forest. I find myself remembering a great many things. That I have traveled to lands far and wide; but it comes back only in glimpses at a time. The group I am party to is a strange mix indeed. I follow them. The three fighters, roguish and warrior alike and the three mages: apostates of blood, spirit, and primal magicks each. We arose from the place of my first consciousness, the slavers arena, in a Mages’ Collective. My benefactors granted me an allowance and a blade. I graciously accepted. I will find my way and cut through the shrouds concealing my past and future. The primal one seems to have found a direction, a quest, from some female magister. We were very well equipped. Our first expedition is across the great Lake Calenhad. I held our craft steady at the helm while the party fended off the several aquatic beasts that assailed us. Me made it to the opposite shore laden with the carcasses of one of our assailants, a great werefish, and that of several great fish caught by our mage’s dexterous fishing skill. Between the primal mage and the crafty dwarf duster they augmented a buckler with the cursed teeth begotten from the werefish. Crude Shemlen crafts, I think. I was afforded a mount as well, ‘Helen’ is the steeds name. Swift is she, and fleet of foot. Looking into the beasts eyes I see glimpses of a memory, staring into the eyes of another mount, a great white stag amidst a dense wood. A memory far set apart from the sparsely wooded plains and the flat and crystalline expanse of the lake. Who am I? Where is the forest? Where am I from?



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