Yesterday, a friend suggested that I write a report about myself.
"Wow, Sigrun, you've lived such an interesting and varied life! Surviving Dust Town, the Legion of the Dead, the surface... I could just go on and on! But there's so much left untold! Why don't you write all about it? It'll be such an inspiration to others, don't you think? Other casteless, other legionnaires, other small but terrifying people..."
(Not her words exactly.)
First I thought, "What? Really? My life?" And then I thought, "Well, why not?" Let's see if darkspawn blood makes good ink!
(It doesn't. Just so you know. It seems to want to crawl off the page on its own. I'm not making this up. I swear it does that.)
Anyway, let's start from the beginning...
I was born in Dust Town. They say I slid out of my mother like a buttered nug going through a I was an easy birth. My mother's name was Jana, and we had a little shack in Dust Town that we shared with her brother and his wife and their four children. My mother made her bits helping merchants unload the brontos. It was never really enough. She loved me, though, and she told me that often, and was sorry she couldn't give me more. It never occurred to her to go to the surface. It doesn't occur to many dusters.
From the time I could walk, I did what I could. Begging came first--a crying child, brand or no brand, is hard to see, even for the most cold-hearted nobles. But the ladies were the easiest. Especially those who couldn't have children of their own. And believe me, it was a big problem up in the Diamond Quarter. Maybe having man-sized statues of your ancestors peering down at you with their glittering eyes didn't do much for the mood I pitied them.
Anyway, when I got old enough that the tear-stained face just wasn't working anymore, I turned to thieving. It helped put a little more food on the table, especially since my ma was getting sicker. I won't go into that. I'm not looking for sympathy, and it's just something that happens to dusters. Dust Town's just a hard life, you know? No food, smoke and waste from the forges--it's just bad. Anyway, it was my turn to look after her, so I did, as much as I could.
That's when I met Mischa. She helped me out. I stole some food and she caught me, but paid for it instead of telling the shopkeeper. Don't think I even thanked her. I have sh1t for manners these days, but back then, it was worse. Much worse. Anyway, she told me that if I ever wanted to get away from stealing, to come see her at her shop in the commons. So the next day, I did. She started me off running errands for a few bits a day. Tough lady, never gave me a moment's rest. Sigrun, deliver this package to Janar. Sigrun, get those plates off the shelf and wrap them in leather. Sigrun, just run over to the door and come back. Now do it twice more. Things like that. Even though she wanted to help, I think deep down she believed what everyone always says about us brands, that we're bad. We can't help it. We're born criminal, and if left to ourselves, we do criminal things on instinct. Like sh1tting and fcuking breathing. She thought if she didn't keep me constantly occupied, it would be, "Oops, how did I end up with the monument to Endrin Aeducan in my pocket? I guess I must've swiped it without realizing!"
I guess I showed her how wrong she was, huh? (That was sarcasm.) I couldn't even look at her when the guards were taking her away. I didn't have to look at her. I could tell she was staring at me. I could feel it. She knew it was me that planted the statue of Paragon Bemot. Who else could it be but me? It was the rotten casteless duster. It was her own fault for trusting me.
Well, after Mischa was exiled, it was back to thieving for me. It was in my nature, after all. And by that time, my ma had died and dear Uncle Boro wasn't going to support me, so I was on my own. I could've gone to someone in the Carta and tried my hand (and other bits) at being a noble hunter. But I didn't have the looks, and no noble's going to put up with a mouthy brand. Not mouthy in the way I'm mouthy anyway. So thievery it was. Big time, this time. Got protection from the Carta to work certain parts of the Commons. I was doing all right, till they found me with my hand in Damira Helmi's pocket. She had this beautiful, ruby-encrusted purse... I was thinking of all the roast nug I was going to eat, and I got careless. The guards chased me all through the Commons. I really should've just gone with them, but I was stupid. I fought back, and one of the guards, he... cracked his head on a pillar. I just wanted to trip him to get away. I never intended for him to die.
But he died, and they caught me. A casteless killing a member of the Warrior Caste in good standing? Well, it was execution or the Legion. I chose the Legion. They threw me a party! Well, they threw a party for the Legion recruits from the upper castes. I just happened to be there. And technically it was a funeral, with dirges and mourning. But there was also feasting and drinking, which, to me, made it a party. I ate all the roast nug I could, and then we were ushered out the great doors and into the dark.
Paragon's mercy, was it dark. You don't know dark until you've been in the Deep Roads without a torch. People started lighting them, slowly, but in those first few moments, I thought I was going to cry. And then I felt a hand on my shoulder, and someone telling me that it was going to be all right. It was Varlan Vollney. We became friends. He taught me to read and write. Without him, you wouldn't be reading this right now, would you?
He died in Kal'Hirol. I still miss him a little bit, sometimes. But he was ready. He'd been ready for a while. He never told me what he did to end up in the Legion, but I got the feeling it was something really bad that he felt horrible about. So he was ready to go. I never was. Not till I met the Grey Wardens.
(Wow, that did not come out well. "Grey Wardens make Legion of the Dead member wish for true death." That's not what I meant. You know what I meant.)
Anyway, there it is--the story of my life. Shorter than I thought it would be. Actually, people say that to me a lot. The other story of my life.