A/N: Ask and ye shall receive… Will update as time permits.


The Mage's Cycle:
An epic poem about a hopelessly romantic apostate waging an epic struggle against forces he can't possibly defeat,

by

Varric Tethras,
Dwarven Storyteller Extraordinaire of Kirkwall

(Copyright 9:31 Dragon, All rights reserved.)

Rain, Bianca, crossbow fair,
Bolts down upon those who despair,
A fight we never wanted ere,
But must enjoin from mage's dare.

Come one and all and listen close,
No braggart, I, or one to boast,
Yet this tale is one to declare,
'I shit you not, tis true, I swear!'

Apostate blond, tale so tragic,
Of two different minds, a little manic,
Wars against deep fears of magic,
Yet Divine Justinia seems not to panic.

A rebel mage with heart aflame,
Wanted rights and love to claim,
Yet Chantry nor women could tame,
Too few chest hairs may be the blame.

Magic in his blood had he,
His homeland's waters mayhaps be,
Lyrium-spiked to some degree.
We cannot know with certainty.

Say only that our tragic mage,
Was born within the Dragon Age,
Homeland country but a stage,
Lives he now upon this page.

Blond hero's magic did manifest,
At some young age to his distress,
Taken cruelly from mother's breast,
Clutched a pillow, her last bequest,

Dragged off to Circle high and lonely,
Grew up to be our one and only
Hero, who would look less homely,
If feathered pauldrons were less showy.

Dreams of tigers, fierce and strong,
Spurred young blond hero on and on,
To wild thoughts of what lay beyond,
His Circle in the creeping dawn.

Phylactery could not he procure,
Still planned he plans most bold and sure,
Of the world he wished to tour,
So set he to it, intentions pure.

Seven times did he escape,
By skin of teeth and knees a-scrape,
Donned disguises, swirl of dark cape,
Swam for it, once, Templars agape.

Yet each time caught, dragged back was he,
Never smiling, none too happy,
Our hero more determined to be
Roaming wide, unchased and free.