Tales of the Angriest Warden

What follows is a curious series of publications specifically for those within the order of Seekers. We are the Seekers of Truth, and it is with some degree of hesitation that I circulate these pieces. There is a large portion of these documents that will inevitably cause some hot debate among scholars, for example, the Hero of Ferelden's ability to "scream blood mages to death" and his "excessive hatred toward the [expletive]sucking [expletive plural], the [expletive] creatures that [innuendo for masturbation] a giant barbed dragon [genitalia expletive], the Darkspawn." These papers are exclusive to our Order, and will stay so. The tale of Cayle Amell, the infamous "Angry Mage" is published in hopes of boosting our efforts to locate him and various key players in the recent turmoil. -Sister Nightingale

[shackestyx]

I just imagine our Warden(s) watching Redcliffe from a distance being like

[angrymage]

"AND SOMETIMES IT JUST"

"I CAN'T EVEN REMOTELY UNDERSTAND HOW THE ARL FUCKED IT UP THIS TIME. I'M WATCHING FROM THE FADE AND IT'S JUST... HOW IN THE MAKER'S NAME DID YOU?!"

[mccrees-tumbleweed1-deactivated]

Wait

What if the Warden and Hawke somehow got trapped in the fade, and they accidentally created the breach trying to get out?

[angrymage]

"THERE ARE SOMETHINGS THAT JUST HAPPEN"

"AND COUSIN HAWKE WAS KIND OF MAKING ME MAD SO I GRABBED THE FADE BY ITS RECTUM AND GAVE IT A WHATFOR."

"SORRY."

[angrymage]

EYEWITNESS - "Paint my boots!"

This particular tale, regaled by some unknown source through a variety of fliers and pamphlets, has been put together by several of our agents. The Divine has taken a personal interest in this tale, largey due to its surprisingly comical nature. This tale can only be logically placed immediately after Lothering, and due to my position at the rear of the camp (and neither Alistair nor Morrigan being willing to discuss it), I am personally unable to verify its truth value.

-Sister Nightingale

As one would undoubtedly expect, the Grey Wardens have survived Ostagar! Not being so easily defeated, one of our many sources met with the Wardens personally while they traveled from Lothering to Redcliffe. On their travels, the Wardens were rightly safe and arguably the safest on the roads.

This particular writer believes it is because of their leader, a Grey Warden who has become most infamous for his temper.

The Korcari Wilds are home to many Chasind folk, untold masses of them left to flee from the Blight as it stretches across the land. However, while most were more than happy to simply find a new stretch of land, a select few took to banditry and robbery. As the undoubted decline in law and order spread through the land, a popular pastime for many refugees was 'plunder and murder.'

Thanks to the Grey Wardens, however, this was no longer the case.

As my cart was being ransacked, a suit of armor shimmering with magical auras and a visor glowing bright red trekked through the path. They saw the bandits, who held among them an apostate blood mage, and it was upon that moment I understood what was about to happen as I heard the ungodly howl of fury originate from the suit of armor.

"HEY BLOOD-MAGE TAINT-SUCKER, HOW ABOUT I REACH DOWN YOUR ARTERIES AND DRAW UPON YOUR LIFEBLOOD TO PAINT MY BOOTS?!"

I felt even more terror, as the loudest and most furious of the Wardens left his companions to charge alone against thirty men and a blood-mage. He continued screaming, and spells flew from his helmet as I realized he was in fact a mage himself. Either he was a mage, or had become so angry that the Fade wept at his existence and consoled him with powers unimaginable. As each man fell, life essence flew to him, as did spiritual energy from their souls. An aura of death swirled around him, and he punched the heaviest of the Chasind in the torso.

The mess from that punch spattered even my face, and I could tell his shouts of fury were mere warnings for the Hell he relinquished. All that stood was the final blood mage, who had used her magic to puppet my fellows into killing one another. She attempted the same thing on him, and it held him still for but a moment before he screamed.

"Uh uh, MOTHAFUCKA LET'S JUMP TONIGHT"

His body became free of the control he was placed under, and perhaps I felt too at ease as he walked casually to the blood-mage and grabbed her by the throat.

"WHEN I RUN THROUGH THE WORLD, WITH MY DICK IN MY HAND..." His other hand pulled back, "WHEN I PUNCH YOU IN THE FACE WITH THE BASS AND A PLAN,"

I watched in horror as his free hand clenched into a fist and connected with the blood-mage's face in such a ferocious intensity that her body flew to the ground and the clouds in two pieces. Her head may very well be among the stars, for as far as I can tell it hasn't come down yet. Her torso, or what was left of it, burst into flames. A demon leaped from her bosom, and was met with a dropping fist.

"YOU WILL NEVER BE QUITE THE SAME, BECAUSE IT'S CAYLE, YOU CAN SAY MY NAME!"

The Grey Warden then drop-kicked the demon, a creature that appeared to be a beautiful young woman of lithe features and heavenly bosom. It could not dissipate fast enough before its scattered remains impacted a tree and bent that tree over. The Grey Warden marched forward, his weapons still firmly on his back.

He had never drawn a weapon.

[angrymage]

EYEWITNESS: "The Battle of Ostagar"

Foreword:

My fellow Seekers, this series of publications has become somewhat frustrating to circulate, as the original manuscript becomes difficult to follow. It stands without reason, that we must draw from more than simply the inane scribbling of the Hero of Ferelden in order to study potentially one of the first in a long line of unfortunately influential magi, several of which are apostates.

The Hero of Ferelden undoubtedly had influence with people beyond his immediate party, and there are some interesting eyewitness accounts of the Hero and his... Eccentricity. Do take this with some degree of scrutiny, as the soldier appeared to have been recovering from a trauma so deep that we were unable to truly discern its origins. What follows is a transcription of the account of this 'survivor' who felt the Hero's fury.

-Sister Nightingale

Interviewee: So, you want to hear the story of the Hero? Of his fight at Ostagar? I saw a bit, but short of a few coin I... Oh... You're from the Chantry and...

As you could imagine, not all of our interview was recorded.

Interviewee: I saw it all! I was in the Tower of Ishal, we were supposed to light some signal-fire and get the Teyrn's men in position for a charge and have a good fight on the Darkspawn. But... Not everything went as we had hoped. When the Hero and King Alistair arrived, we were terrified.

SN: Why were you concerned?

Interviewee: As you could imagine, the darkspawn simply appeared in our tower. They had broken through the ground, coming out of the dirt and flaying men. I hid, at first, and ran. One of the other guardsman who were watching the tower joined me, and we ran right into the Grey Warden pair. Unfortunately for us, Alistair had a way with words and convinced us to come with him and the Hero.

SN: What of the Hero?

Interviewee: He was... Not screaming?

SN: I think you're lying to me. I don't like liars.

Interviewee: Maker no! He wasn't screaming yet! He was wearing a robe. He had a staff. He was a normal mage at this point, scrawny and easy to squish with one's bare hands.

SN: Go on.

Interviewee: Don't hurt me! He and Alistair recruited us to fight up the tower, dealing with various darkspawn. No major creatures at this juncture, nothing more than Hurlocks and Genlocks. We made it through the tower, found the cages of Mabari from the Ash Warriors, and managed to make it through with no casualties. However, Alistair and the Hero took a good knock. They fell over, I was convinced they had died. But, when I was about to fall myself... The extraordinary happened.

SN: How extraordinary?

Interviewee: I was terrified. Almost as if possessed, the Hero stood up. His robe was torn, his staff bent, but his eyes glowed unlike nothing I had seen prior. He shimmered, magic venting from his skin and his body pulsating with light. I couldn't tell if it was providence or a demon, but I erred on the latter when he spoke.

SN: He spoke in this state?

Interviewee: Unlike the abominations I'd heard about, he spoke clearly. His normal voice changed little. There was no hollow noises, no secondary entities in his throat. He screamed a sentence I hardly believed, and he began to tear the darkspawn apart in a way I never knew possible.

SN: What did he do?

Interviewee: I need to back up. When I was holding my shield, crying that I'd never see my brother again, that my son would live without a dad, and so on, I felt something. There was a slight groan. It was a rising noise, and as the Hero stood up I knew something was wrong.

SN: What are you on about?

Interviewee proceeded to request a musical instrument. His request was answered by my willingness to humor him, and I felt there was nothing wrong with allowing him another means to communicate his story. I realized that if he were to pontificate his story, he would be able to tell it better. I was surprised at not only his talent, but the sheer audacity of what he was doing with the instrument.

SN: What in the Maker's name?

Interviewee: He began to hum, loudly, speaking not in words but in notes. As he stood, the darkspawn were so stunned by his words that he was able to, uninterrupted, grab one by the face.

SN: He... Grabbed a darkspawn?

Interviewee: A hurlock! One of their mages!

SN: I see. What happened after, bard?

Interviewee: -chuckles- That's just a side-hobby, I-

SN: It was sarcasm...

Interviewee: Right. -coughs- He let out a scream as lightning exited his body and exploded the emissary in pure energy.

SN: Surely the scream had content?

Interviewee: He screamed "YOU'VE BEEN..." before looking to me with arcing thunder in his eyes, "THUNDERSTRUCK!"

SN: Get this man out-

Interviewee: No! I am telling you! He legitimately did this! He screamed that several more times, each time becoming progressively more dazzling to look upon. As he finished clearing the room, the Mabari walked quietly to their cages and watched him don a suit of splintmail he found off a corpse.

SN: You have got to be joking.

Interviewee: I swear on that bottle you have in your hands that I'm not!

SN: It's an elixir that'll make you forget my face.

Interviewee: Not yet! I also know of how he escaped the tower!

SN: Then continue. Any more musical flights of fancy, and I will use something more... Direct in wiping your memory.

Interviewee: When we made it to the top of the tower, we found an Ogre. At this point, King Alistair was horrified at the prospect of fighting one. But our Hero, no, he was not terrified.

SN: Perhaps he was in fact so terrified he only voiced screams?

Interviewee: Why are you so determined to have him be anything but the Hero?

SN: Because he did some bad things, truly terrible things.

Interviewee: Like save Ferelden?

SN: Like contribute to the Tear.

The Interviewee suddenly became quiet, as if he had been hit with a fact he hadn't been able to cope with in the past. He inhaled sharply, and looked to me with sadness.

Interviewee: A man so inclined to pry me from an Ogre's jaws could never have wittingly torn the Veil. To continue, the Hero drew his sword and a strong shield as the Ogre reacted to our presence. The Ogre charged, hitting him as he was beginning to become coherent once more. He flew off, limp. As the others and I fought, we began to fall. I was plucked after Alistair was thrown, held up like a doll. I began to cry, weeping that I'd die in some darkspawn's belly. Until I heard the shouting once more.

SN: The shouting?

Interviewee: He screamed that he was back. He was back, in black. He proceeded to charge the Ogre, headbutting it and knocking it over. It staggered, and he shouted profanities at it until glyphs painted its body. As it recovered from falling, I rolled away and hid behind the nearest pile of corpses to watch. He spat, not yet wearing a helmet. His body was aglow, his eyes changing color and his skin fading in and out of a fiery existence. Unlike abominations I read about, his skin was blue. His eyes were like motes of white-hot fire, and he spoke: "Stand up and be counted, for what you are about to receive! We are the dealers! We'll give you everything you need. Hail, hail to the good times, cos I have got the right of way! We ain't no legends, ain't got no cause, we're just livin' for today!"

SN: What does any of that rubbish mean?

Interviewee: It means, ma'am, absolutely nothing but absolutely everything. He proceeded to scream "FIRE!" and jumped on the Ogre's head. He screamed that word at it, until the horns broke off. Wielding them like polearms, he clobbered the Ogre and the hordes of darkspawn for what felt like hours. A large bird, or it might have been a dragon? I cannot tell you which, but something came from the sky and plucked him from the tower after no darkspawn remained. He was bloodied, battered, and recovering from what I fear may have been a possession he somehow counteracted, so the creature had no hard time. He swung his fists at it, catching the bird's maw and causing it no minor pain.

SN: Bullshit.

Interviewee: I swear on my life! I was able to rejoin a group of deserters, who chose to run instead of die, took my family to Denerim, and we have been there every since! That man was a warrior most valorous! He refused to be picked up by what he called "a giant chicken of questionable magical power." He vanished as quickly as it swooped down, arrows filling his body.

As you can tell, something about the Hero of Ferelden makes him different from most others in the world. Other mages have gone berserk in such a way, but few have done so without being inhabited by a demon. We believe it was a spirit, as the Hero was also taught to be a Spirit Healer by Wynne, a Nevarran Enchanter.

If that is in fact true, and he is inhabited by a spirit, it could answer a few questions while also raise many more. His writing referred to a spirit of Valor, although never directly naming it such, as well as the soul of an ancient Elven warrior. Either of those, or potentially both, are hazards we cannot afford to encounter.

Seekers, do take great care. Keep an open mind, but ensure it is never too open.

-Sister Nightingale

[angrymage]

"Trouble in The Gilded Cage"

The Hero of Ferelden, as it is no doubt known, was a Circle Mage first and foremost. Though his poorly recorded, violent screaming during the Circle Tower Incident heavily imply otherwise, it is with great imperative I remind all who read this that he was, in fact, born and raised in the Circle. He may have identified with one of the factions, but he would never say one way or another what his views were.

What can be drawn from this incident, however, is that when the Fade tore apart (and I'm referring to his temper, rather than the actual incident where such a tear legitimately occurred!), this is where the beings of the Fade undoubtedly knew the true meaning of fear. This is a continuation of his previous scribbling, where he attempts to write a memoir. Further accounts before his full and complete snap into borderline Demon-Rage, where this state of mind is continued (the sane, intelligible state) were stained in blood upon his time at Ostagar. These pieces that are published are, in fact, museum-worthy pieces of literature... Not for the quality, mind you, but their sheer historical significance.

We live in such great times, where we value the historical significance of the scrawled words of a psychotic mage. A mage that tore an Abomination's arms off and wore them as gauntlets for three days in an act of unfettered rage seldom recreated even among the Abominations consumed by Rage demons. Wonderful.

-Sister Nightingale

Were you to ask any one person about the Circle, especially the cooped up mages, the resounding remark you would hear almost unanimously was how the only way out was down.

Ironically enough, that's true for Apprentices!

As if fate knew what fickle things were in store for me, it landed me in a position where I was stuck doing nothing but helping one particular apprentice, effectively wet his whistle. What was unfortunate for everyone involved in this incident, however, was that getting his 'whistle' wet involved breaking free from the Circle Tower.

And not by jumping out of a window.

Daylen had, when taken to be made Tranquil, screamed "I WONDER IF DESIRE DEMONS HAVE COCKS" and leaped from the top of the building. The Templars, assisted by a particular Sister-Initiate Lily, were too keen on showing us the product of Daylen's "over-reaction" of being lobotomized by lyrium-addicts. The same lyrium-addicts that were able to fart blue flames that destroyed a mage's very existence. He, through sheer force of will, became an abomination on the way to the ground. Or, at least, he looked like one.

I'm curious if he ever found his answer? I figure he'd be doing better grabbing a Desire Demon in the Fade than sitting next to the Maker talking about how Desire Demons are bad.

Or that mages are worse.

Before I ramble, this set two storms on a path for my head: the Sister-Initiate Lily and Jowan's determination to not be taken into the same chamber as Daylen. Now, Lily was a fair woman. Do not mistake this, I simply did not care for her. I knew that anything beyond my lucid trips into a personal brothel would lead to nothing but frustration. Some of the others were able to do what they needed to do, like hold hands, but I was always getting hit and scolded whenever I told another woman she had her dress on backwards.

In hindsight, I know why they did that, Desire Demons being what they were, but that was just absurd. A Desire Demon would be less likely to possess someone who had a real-world supply of their... Needs. Well, that seems logical enough.

Jowan found me immediately after being congratulated by First Enchanter Irving, and insisted I needed to talk to him. I told him that he needed to go sleep off whatever mental breakdown he was having, only to be told that he'd be in the little Chantry we had in the Tower. I was most unsurprised to see him with a woman, one who undoubtedly he enjoyed the company of. I shared my condolences to her, to which only Jowan got the joke. My cruel humor aside, I was quickly told that I was to help them escape. I had no say in the matter, because Jowan was going to be made Tranquil and Maker, we can't have that!

I figure even a Tranquil can appreciate a woman hugging him... Couldn't they?

Bouncing between the two lovebirds intent on burning down the cage-stand and Irving, I was told that I simply must help. Why? Circle politics. That's another thing a common man won't realize about the Circle: we get so bored being in our little round shapes (that's a joke for 'Circle of Magi' in case you were curious!) that we find reasons to argue. Irving and Uldred apparently went to blows once because they disliked something Greagoir did. The Knight-Commander's crime?

SCRATCHING HIS NOSE WHILE SPEAKING TO IRVING.

I wish my name was Shirley, so that it would be jest.

But, I was caught burning out spiders, shouting at Tranquil over rods of fire, not helping the Elven Enchanter for any real purpose (I wanted to see if the spiders could kill me instead of the Maker forcing me to help Jowan's hare-brained scheme), and going to the basement of the Circle Tower in hopes of saving Jowan from being slapped with Tranquility.

As we worked our way through the cellars, I began to grow even more weary of every passing remark from my beloved, but dim-witted friend named Jowan. If his significant other were half as pleasant to look at as she was, I would have locked them both down there.

I will admit, I am a base man. But, I seldom got out during this time-frame. The fact I wasn't burning Jowan for a chance to make direct eye-contact without being beaten for it was a remarkable show of restraint on my part. (That, fortunately, is jest: I am actually very restrained).*

*Nightingale's Note: He is not. At all.

Despite my poor humor and, as-so-far-mentioned terrible manners, I was quite polite to the two of them despite my seething hatred for everything Lily said. I can tolerate someone who follows the Chantry. Some people need faith to get by, but Lily...

"It is Tevinter! They dabbed in dark magics! We should go!" she would say.

I would 'accidentally' land a cone of flame on her backside in response. I argued it was something that began to happen after my Harrowing. That was only a half-lie, after my Harrowing I found it much easier to channel my pent-up frustrations into my magic. It became much easier to meditate on something while burning a person.

Lily just happened to be the focus of my mediations throughout that entire crypt.

After I bare-fist punched a suit of armor in irritation, we came upon the Phylactery Chamber. Now, this is to say something about Circle security, but the Phylacteries were on pedestals. They were not labeled, they were not sorted, and they certainly weren't enchanted beyond suits of laughably easy armor protecting them with what I think was supposed to be Divine Power? They had maces, and bright white spirits threw spells at me. That's all I remember of them, asides from a haze of red.

Jowan, most unremarkably (and surprisingly without any potential for foreshadowing - that is a lie he was a terrible showman), broke his phylactery. He dropped it on the ground, uttered "I'm free!" and left with Lily and I. We were ambushed by Templars and Irving.

Now, as you would expect, the Templars will insist it was Blood Magic and that Jowan got away scott-free. No. That is not the case. When Jowan drew the knife and shouted, I began my own scream.

Greagoir will never admit it, but when I screamed the whole tower shook. Irving stifled laughter as I began to spew obscenities at such a speed that the others in the room were dumbstruck. The sheer zeal that flew from my mouth was so intense that it caused Jowan to miss his hand by a great deal and stab himself in the arm. The effect produced more blood than intended, and he was only able to whimper the verbal components of whatever spell he wanted to cast at us. So naturally, when I called him several things at the same time and threatened to reach into the Fade to produce his dead forefathers as phallic objects and place each Forefather-Phallus in his nether-regions...

You can imagine he was surprised.

The great Duncan of the Grey Wardens was there, as well, unfortunately seeing every bit of what I had done. It would produce much more pain in my life to have had him there, and I lament on what his witnessing my unprecedented fury caused in the greater scheme of things, but... One can only wish.

Jowan ran from the building, his trousers ripe with the scent of solid waste and his face drained of color. Lily insisted she be sent to Aeonar - a place I still don't have the foggiest notion as to why it's so terrible for someone who is not a mage - to cleanse herself of a) the assisting of a Blood Mage and b) the stains on her psyche that my tirade had left. Greagoir was speechless, Irving could not stop laughing, and Duncan stammered that I should join the Grey Wardens. An argument ensued, and I inhaled loudly as I realized they were talking as if I was not there.

Greagoir shouted "FINE, have your abomination! I will not see him turn in my tower! Better he change on the battlefield than in this building where someone that furious could wipe out all of Ferelden's Circle!"

And with that... The Gilded Cage was mine no longer. I gathered a few things, winked at the Elven Enchanter, paid my respects to Daylen (if he had known shouting curse words at someone would have let him run free then he might not have jumped from the top of the Tower?), and went to Ostagar.

What occurs from here through several dozen pages is repeating of four-letter expletives, stains of what one assumes to be lyrium potion on paper, and a surprisingly well-done portrait of the former Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir being run through by several whimsically-drawn people, all bearing a striking resemblance to the young King Cailan. The former Teyrn saying "please do not do the stab with OH-Aleeeshun blades" (that was a direct transcription of what I now know is mockery of Loghain's stressing of the word 'Orlesian'). He comes to, and continues.

We traded one gilded cage for another, after taking part in a ritual I respect far more than the Harrowing. Becoming a Grey Warden is grim, terrible business. One that a man such as I - who has a fond enjoyment of peace and quiet - would dread to do had I known all my life. However, that combined with the trauma of Loghain's betrayal of his own King would see me change into a different man. After I threatened to tear a highwayman's throat out and replace it with his buttocks... I knew this to be a truly unique take on my previously frustrating life.

The quote was, according to the villagers who saw it happen: "IF I TEAR YOUR THROAT OUT AND YOUR ARSE OFF, MAYBE IF I SWITCH THEM WHENEVER YOU BREATHE IN THE MANNER THAT IMPLIES YOUR HORRIBLE LIES ALL ANYONE WILL HEAR IS THE WET, SQUELCHING NOISE OF A HANGED MAN'S LAST BOWEL MOVEMENT!"

Needless to say, this spawned several thousand variants of a terrible joke in Kirkwall's Hanged Man bar:

"What did the highwaymen say to the Hero of Ferelden?" [The punchline is whatever simulacrum to a human fart the 'comedian' can reliably produce. Or, lacking that, the entire bar bursting into a farting contest.]

Needless to say those highwaymen ended up in Kirkwall, ironically repenting in the Chantry when another angry mage made a point to cause the revolution.

Indeed, as I ventured about Lothering my ability to restrain myself became less apparent. I was only ever happy to my companions, whom enjoyed Feastday with me. I feel atrocious for the time I spent four hours screaming at Leliana for being unable to pick a lock,* but at times... I felt atrocious at everyone. Morrigan I was surprisingly able to remain cordial with, despite her insipid jokes at Alistair's expense. Alistair was the only person to never draw my ire, so it was doubly strange that I was fine with Morrigan's insulting the only true friend I ever had.

Were he actually sorry, he would have said so when I threw knives into his arse.

I distinctly remember a time when I fought some bandits outside of the town. Flying through the fields beyond Lothering in a rage, I drew a mace and shield with a hearty scream of "WHO WANTS TO PLAY THE GAME!?" and charged what I assumed was a bandit leader.

Leliana was hit hardest and fastest, almost as if they knew she was a dastardly fighter. Never mind the mage who-

Oh yes.

I was wearing splintmail and a shield, largely due to my peering into the Fade while furiously cutting down Darkspawn at Ostagar. Thumbing back in my transcripts, I see several pages detailing a very well-written and thought out treatise on the depths of the Fade* and how history was something completely alien to the beings of the Fade.

He is referring to the pages that were destroyed by mad rambling and scribbles of foul words. Despite his best efforts to show anyone otherwise, there is no order to any of the wording, any of the pictures made out of the worse 'arse,' and there is no inkling of reference to what he mentions next.

I even had first-hand accounts of an Elven soul wandering the Fade for eternity! He taught me to channel my magic inward, to become a warrior who could use his intellect to wear armor and his magic to guide his weapons. l had my doubts, but after talking to him for what felt like years (time is strange in the Fade, seventeen billion years could pass, but you would wake up like it's nothing and it only have been an eight-hour rest in the material realm!) I was trained in swinging weapons and wearing armor. I had entered the Fade with my conscious after an Ogre appeared. According to Alistair, Flemeth, and strange looks from Morrigan on some nights, I apparently was fighting in a blood-rage so deep that I had no recollection of what happened.

I had leaped onto an Ogre's head, screamed at its horns until they broke off, and used them as couched lances to kill several dozen Darkspawn before coming to, using my sword and hastily-donned splintmail I stole from a dead soldier to curtail the life of the Ogre by stabbing it in the skull eighty-seven times.

But, as I charged down the fields of Lothering, I reached my hand down a bandit leader's throat and did the unspeakable:

I reached my hand down his throat and tore the tag off his underwear.

He had a piece of stitching on his underwear, that I assume had his name on it, and I had tore it out through his throat and showed it to him before he died. The other bandits left screaming, crying that a man who 'belched fire' and 'destroyed the laws of physics' (whatever that means!) had convinced them to become good men.*

This, in fact, was true. He killed a man by reaching down his throat and tearing... Something from the man's pants.

And, it was all even more compounded when Sten and I both shared a drink while breaking some of Loghain's men apart by looking at them nd

From here out, fellow Seekers of Truth, these 'memoirs' are told as if from the eyes of another. He began to fall deep into a borderline permanent psychotic rage, for a great time. Whenever he was talking, he would appear sane. But, whenever our travels took us to combat, he would cause the Reavers of the Frostback Mountains and the Dwarves of Orzammar to pause while making the Brecilian Forest's werewolves whimper in pain. I feared for my own life, but fear not. I was respected as "the only person who could handle the great Grey Warden, Cayle 'SPAWNFUCKER' Amell.

[angrymage]

"Growing up in the Circle," the first attempt at Memoirs

This will be the first in a series of papers and publications released amongst those of the Seekers, as well as a select few Inquisitors, in hopes that the location of the Hero of Ferelden can be verified. Please note that there are some instances where his accounts are the outright opposite of what may or may not have happened, and I will verify this with my own annotations. Do not distribute this beyond Val Royeaux, for if the greater populace knew the source of the infamous "Amell Fury" then what little influence we have on them could very well be lost. Just know that he held no punches in his views. And, considering the views of his Apostate cousin, David Hawke, it stands to reason that these views were hereditary.

If we do not learn from these words, we may stand to face many who emulate the divine influence found in the Amell bloodline. And, if you can look to the Chantry in Kirkwall (and the lack of one therein), you will be able to clearly see what happens when an Amell is moved to action. May the Maker watch over us all.

Sister Nightingale, of the Seekers of Truth

As a majority of people from Ferelden can tell you, mages can be truly terrifying creatures among men. What they don't like to admit, however, is that they are truly cooped up in a giant tower and expected to not burn it down in their various attempts to not die to demons in their sleep set the libraries on fire kill one another become rebellious.

Yes, it's something that I truly have a hard time believing, but the common man believes a mage can be anything they choose, from gods to demons to soulless husks with glorified tattoos on their foreheads. They seldom think that a person with magical potency to their... 'blood' could be a ball of frustrations many of which are sexual that can somehow manifest these emotions in pillars of flame.

You try living in a tower with a bunch of other men, and the women you can seldom even touch without a Chantry Sister slapping your face chastising you for the thought!

"Perish that thought!" one Sister screamed at me, as I smiled at a young elven woman. I had dropped my spoon full of whatever they scooped from a horse's trough before I realized what had happened. I was thinking of something Jowan did, where he tried to do the infamous 'fiery palm' trick I showed him. You see, when I was pulled into the Circle, I was apparently showing off to my entire family that I could ignite my palms at will. It was a neat trick, one that served little purpose other than scaring those figures I vaguely remember as 'parents.'

Jowan had, in his infinite wisdom, caught his entire body on fire instead. His palm was the only part of him that hadn't burned!

But Maker help me tell the Sister that. A few bludgeons with a copy of some holy text or another she prattled about and I knew regret.

Maker help me if I turn out to enjoy the company of men, I thought to myself. Unfortunately for me, I was not nearly as lucky. Daylen, one of the other apprentices, was in his equivalent of Heaven by the time he came into his sexuality.

Of course, when I dreamed and wandered about the Fade I would be talking to figments I created and exercising some more base desires out that way. Daylen could just reach down from his top bunk and have a good time with someone else, granted it was consensual.

That was an interesting thing they never talk about in any Templar gathering: consent is extremely important when someone can imagine fire and suddenly you need to be treated or die of a whole-body-infection.

But, I'm rambling. As you can imagine, I had to go through a harrowing trial-by-fire, ironically called the Harrowing. When I entered the Fade on that day, something changed in me. Not to the extent of me becoming an abomination (despite shouts from various Templars I encountered later on, when I returned to the Circle), but something notable enough to warrant noting.

It was on that day that I found a terrible truth: rage was by far the most powerful tool any mage could have. Sure, we have the ability to use blood in our spells and all of that, but my brief encounters of it were no match for the words of a strange spirit I met during my Harrowing.

"Young mortal, I see within you great power. A lesser being would feed on your pent up emotions, but I know to show you better. You are a powerful creature, your willpower undeniable. You hold within you an unspeakable fate, and otherworldly power. Channel it well, and fear not the foul creatures of the Fade."

Of course I knew, thanks in no small part of the Sisters who hit me with books for smirking at the jokes told by an Elven woman, that any creature of the Fade was terrible to take advice from.

But I felt... Endeared by the creature of the Fade that told me I was full of otherworldly power. Clearly it was stating the obvious when I could actually piss lightning* but that is besides any point it could have hoped to have made. In my travels I've since learned that the reason demons wish to enter the mortal realm is because they have never had the pleasure of feeling something quite like a boot to the groin, or arrows to the temple.

*Nightingale's Note: The Warden would regularly joke about this, but I was never quite told by anyone if it was true. His lover, however, would smirk at the remark for reasons I believe go without saying in a Chantry environment.

As I finished talking to it, it gave me a staff. Strangely, in the Fade one's higher functions can sometimes pass. I proceeded to beat everything in the Fade with this staff until it ceased to exist. This list included:

88 Wisp Wraiths

32 Spirit Wolves

3 Bears

1 Mouse

Rage Demon

Sloth Demon

Oddly Shaped Desire Demon

When it culminated, and I faced my true test as I was implied, the Rage demon manifested a leg from its lava and delivered a swift kick to my groin before beginning a monologue.

I proceeded to scream at it until it shriveled slightly, and threw it into the abyss below the island. When I felt my anger at being so rudely kicked subsided, I was met with... Troubling revelations from the companion I had found in the Mouse I punted into a tree.

It was in fact a demon of Pride that taught me that, despite what the enchanters and Templars tell you, true tests never end.*

Nightingale's Note: This has been crossed out by another hand. Notes are written on the margin of the original manuscript, with the words "tsk tsk tsk young Warden, ending or not those who see life as tests are naught but fools" on it. I had suspected this was from Wynne, an enchanter currently in Nevarra, but she informed me that, despite the archaic script, it was not hers. The penmanship was very old, however. I suspect it was one of the two Apostates he reportedly met in the Korcari Wilds. I could not find the one he traveled with for comments.

It was in my time after this Harrowing, that I knew my world would expand and become so much greater than I expected it to be.