I wake up face down on the end of his bed, wearing his sweater, with my tights missing, with my underwear missing. 

Three-ish memories, out of sync. The room turning orange. The realization I should call someone to pick me up, but not being able to make my tongue work right. And the side of my face against his comforter, watching the strings on his guitar sway back and forth. 

I wake up screaming. 

I read a lot of fairy tales when I was a kid. And I still do. There are a few consistent lessons, one of them being if you are in a house with strange beings, do not eat their food.  

Whatever he gave me, I did eat it. 

So this is where it gets bad. Something is going to change here, irrevocably and permanently. 

I'll give you three choices. 

Again, this is a muddy timeline. Depression steals memories from you, whole swathes of them. There are months that are missing: October, November. But we aren't there quite yet. It's still the summer, just the end of it. 

Again, this is a muddy timeline. Depression steals memories from you, whole swathes of them. There are months that are missing: October, November. But we aren't there quite yet. It's still the summer, just the end of it. 

I left college determined to become more. I'd spent four years in the academic intersection of an ivory tower and a fishbowl. It was time for me to be amazing.

Sure, I'd never thought that amazing would happen in the midwest. Sure, I had to look up Wisconsin on a map before my interview. But I was scrappy. I could make the best of any situation. Even Wisconsin. 

It's not enough. No matter where your journey begins, one of your siblings is going to die. You'll make two quick allies as you escape your burning home, but only one of them survives. Two dead, and you're still in the tutorial. 

After this, things start [looking up][the real world] or they start [getting worse][Kirkwall]. 

The playing field: you, your two siblings, your cowering mother, and an endless wave of darkspawn.

What are darkspawn? Whatever comes to mind, it's probably not far off.

Your mother is no use here. Your brother has a sword. You and your sister have staffs and a rudimentary grasp of magic. You can make fire, you can make ice, and you can smack anything that gets too close with your big stick. 

Do you really think that's going to be [enough][the carnage]? 

Elia Hawke. Early twenties, maybe? Oldest of three. You're tallish - tall as most men. Lean and hungry looking, not quite pretty so much as handsome, not quite handsome so much as fearsome. Large eyes in a shifty color, skin tawnier than your siblings', a shock of orange hair tied into a ponytail. Faint tattoos under each eye, because you were already your mother's least favorite child. 

Elia Hawke. That's you. 

Do you want to know more? That's the wrong choice. That's the wrong question. But you can still [ask it, if you want][who are you, Elia].

Or you can just start [fighting][fight!]. 

1.
Tonight you burn through the neighborhoods out to the open highway and you grip the blue roof of your car from out the window. The music runs in the spaces between your ribcage. You will get home in six hours. Your throat will be sore, from the bass, and from your silence.