The Heroine of Ferelden

Ch: 1

She sat in the corner of their small, dimly lit home, twisting the edge of her sleeve in her fingers, heart pounding with a mixture of nerves and confusion. The reality of the betrothal had begun to settle in, and with it, the weight of what it all meant. She had grown up knowing this moment would come—the day she would be promised to someone, not out of love but out of duty, out of the simple fact that they were city elves, and this was the way things were done.

"You’re lucky," her father had whispered to her earlier that morning, a thin smile on her face, though her eyes betrayed the fear of what might happen if they refused. "It’s a good match. He’s kind, a good archer. His family is decent. This is a good match."

Lucky. She wasn’t sure she felt lucky. Her hands tightened on the fabric of her dress, the weight of her confusion bearing down on her. Should she accept this? Was this truly what her life was supposed to be?

She had thought of leaving many times before, running far away from the alienage, from her family, from the stifling sense of obligation that seemed to loom over every decision. To be free, to live like the Dalish perhaps, roaming the forests with no ties to anyone. But each time, the thought of leaving her family behind stopped her. They needed her. And, in truth, she needed them too—at least for now.

She took a deep breath and forced herself to stand, straightening her dress. Maybe this was her new reality. Maybe it wasn’t so bad. Perhaps, with time, she would grow to accept it.

The door creaked open, and she heard the murmur of voices. Her betrothed had arrived. She swallowed her anxiety and stepped forward into the main room, her eyes falling on him for the first time.

He was... not what she expected. Slender, shorter than her by a few inches, but there was a certain grace about him, a quiet confidence. His auburn hair was neatly tied back, and though he wasn’t particularly striking, there was something kind in his eyes—an honesty she hadn’t anticipated.

"This is him?" she thought, feeling a strange blend of relief and disappointment. He wasn’t intimidating, at least. In fact, he seemed almost... gentle. She could see the bow slung over his back, a sign of his skill as an archer—one of the best in his part of the alienage, she’d heard. That was something, at least.

He stepped forward, his gaze meeting hers for a brief, awkward moment before quickly shifting to the ground. He was as nervous as she was.

"It’s a pleasure to meet you," he said, his voice soft but steady. "I, uh... I hope we can... make this work."

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak just yet. She was still confused, still uncertain about what she truly wanted. But as she looked at him, she found herself thinking, "Maybe... maybe this won’t be so bad after all."

Then her mind wandered, she saw that monster Vaughan and how he destroyed her life.......

How after killing him she got offer a from Duncan to become a Grey Warden...
....

Her mind then went on a roller coaster of memories including drakspawns, politics, etc.....

Elra’s eyes shot open, her breath coming in ragged gasps as she tried to shake off the lingering dread of the darkspawn. Sweat clung to her skin, her heart racing from the nightmare. She blinked, disoriented, her mind still clouded by the intensity of her dream.

She sat up, taking a moment to ground herself in reality.

Elra’s eyes fluttered open, the remnants of her dreams fading as she slowly adjusted to the dim light of her room. It was early, too early, but she had a crucial task ahead. With a soft groan, she pushed herself up from the bed, the cool air hitting her skin as she swung her legs over the side.

She was wearing a simple shift, a light garment that clung to her curvaceous frame. Her body, toned from years of training and battle, still held a striking femininity—soft curves at her hips, a full bosom, and long, muscular legs that bore the strength of her warrior life. Her skin, though fair, carried the marks of her journey—small scars from minor cuts, already healing. She rarely sustained major injuries, protected by the heavy armor she usually wore, but the skirmishes still left their marks.

Elra rose to her feet, her full lips pressing into a small, contemplative line as she walked to the mirror. Her big, almond-shaped eyes reflected back at her, framed by thick lashes and a face that held both strength and beauty. Her raven hair, usually pulled back in braids or under a helm, tumbled loosely around her shoulders. She ran a hand through it absently, taking in the faint lines of fatigue beneath her eyes. Only thing that made her daughter different fr

With a decisive clap of her hands, she called for her maids. Moments later, they entered, bowing slightly before approaching her with the practiced grace of those familiar with their task. Elra stood still as they moved around her, the soft fabric of her shift sliding away as they began to dress her.

First came the inner clothing, a layer of padded fabric meant to soften the weight of the armor she would soon don. It hugged her form, following the contours of her shapely body while providing the necessary protection for what lay ahead. Next, the maids helped her into her iron armor, simple yet sturdy, designed for the rigorous demands of battle.

The metal clinked as it settled into place, piece by piece, each strap tightened and secured. The familiar weight of the armor gave her a sense of readiness, as if it were an extension of her very being. Finally, as they fastened the last piece, she took a deep breath, feeling the strength of the iron wrap around her.

Elra looked at herself in the mirror again, now armored and ready. Today was important, and she would face it as she always had—strong, determined, and unshakable.