To whom it may concern, this is the last testament and will of one Caro Byrne, also known as Oliver Byrne.

I am of the Byrne family in Starkhaven, which holds some renown and means within their lands. I remember the warmth of my father’s hands and smell of my mother’s hair but I cannot remember their faces, but I was born to them in the year 9:17. Early into my childhood however I showed the telltale signs of magic and was given to the chantry with some regret. Due to the strength of my family name, I was given a new moniker and taken from Starkhaven and moved to the Free Marches to live and grow in the Kirkwall Circle. I will always feel the unfamiliar pangs of sorrow for the life I could have had as Oliver, but I am of no illusion. I am and will always be Caro Byrne.

From a manor house to a repurposed slave barrack complete with gallows was not an easy transition – but the set routine helped. Each day was prescribed to the moment. Each meal, each class, and even sets of leisure time were taken in exact moments they were allowed by the headmaster’s schedule. Deviation led to confinement, and in a world where mental state led to mortal peril, order was maintained by that unseen threat. That was not the only threat on offer, however. Indignities were commonplace amongst the templars within. The familiar chant of “learn your staff” resonated within the circle, excusing the misdeeds of the templar wholesale with chiding reminders that “You know Devon has a temper” and “Don’t be alone with Esra” when they eventually returned to the shared dormitory; if they returned. This is not to say that the children and senior mages did nothing wrong. Those with little power cherish what they can steal from one another. Food was stolen, children fought with hands, and eventually spells. Forbidden magic flowed freer than water. Both minder and charge died to the earnest wrath of the misguided Circle. But the most common method out of the Circle was solitary confinement until possession. It was the great fear lurking the dark corners across the gallows. Knowing my fate now, I wish I was less complicit in that world.

Then seemingly one day a great Hawke descended upon Kirkwall and left naught but bones and scraps of flesh. A deeply unfair statement I know, and not entirely accurate, but from the view through the bars of the cell, it felt like the mage rebellion happened in a few flashed moments, all seared flesh and harrowing screams. But obviously dams do not burst without a stockpile of undue pressure over time. But that instigating moment, what a moment. You stared out of the window at the pillar of red rising into the sky with the remains of the Chantry in tow, and you knew unequivocally that nothing would ever be the same. The phylacteries were gone, the chains fell from our wrists and we fell to our base emotions. Templar and mage alike. I would love to tell you that I lashed back at my gaolers and struck the first blows of the rebellion, but I was first and foremost afraid, and as such, I fled the city.

Truth be told, I missed the rebellion almost in entirety, escaping to the fens and living in the wild for some time. While I had little practical experience in survival, I had had access to one of the finest libraries in the Free Marshes so after a fairly pathetic starting week in the fetid swamplands. I managed to find an abandoned lean to slowly gather myself again. I was free for the first time and it taught me bitter resentment at first. The insects bit ferociously, and the damp was ever pervasive. But what I resented most was the way I left my shoes outside of my door at night, lined up perfectly. I hated that I could not sleep past six in the morning, nor could I stay up past nine. Everytime I completed any task I felt compelled silently to return to my shack for a moment before embarking on the next task. Even as free as I am now, I can still feel my chains dragging behind me. That is where I was found. They called themselves “The Perfect Victory”. Demons, and spirits were common enough in dreams, and easy enough to avoid. Demons preyed upon vice and hubris and if you kept your wants modest enough, they couldn’t get their hooks into. But one night I woke up and it was just there. A spirit of valor just under the surface, tugging at my sleeve everytime I reach my hand out. My isolation rankled him, and my fear stoked his passion. Sometimes when we are both quiet, I can imagine it as it sees itself, a “King in Carmine”. I do not think our pairing is good for him. I know enough to fear pride within a spirit. Eventually Victor, as I came to call it, bade me return to Kirkwall.

The return to Kirkwall was strange. The roads he had seen from above at angles seemed deeply unfamiliar from ground level. He knew he wasn’t supposed to be here on a deep fundamental level and no one cared. Everyone still seemed shellshocked, the second tragedy in as many years left so many without and wandering. I became just another refugee living feet from where my home was. A mix of odd jobs kept a crude roof over my head in Lowtown. Not the safest place to live, but years upon years of austere training did not leave me on the bottom rung. Conflict led to reputation, and that led to more lucrative work, bodyguards did less work than dockhands and got paid much more. That however led to the Byrne name creeping back to hushed whispers of Starkhaven. One of my blood contrived to have me killed, and then have my killers struck down as bandits. As I understand it, I was my father’s first born and my survival muddies an inheritance of some sort. Either way, one set of killers was more efficient than the other, and as I was bound and dragged out to the shore to be murdered, the second group set upon the first group and routed them outright. Them having no orders as to what to do with me, left me to my freedom, and I joined them in exchange. Thus began Caro Byrne the Mercenary.

The House of the Salamander is what we became. The group is small, but can move fast and the skillsets are varied enough to be flexible for most tasks. Victor revels in it, and I can’t say I dislike the sound of it. Mercenaries without work are the halfway point between brigands and unemployed however, so we must keep busy if we are to stay together. I am hopeful for the future

If this testament is found, let it be known that my belongings, such as the are, are to be split between all who know where they are hidden. Barring that I bequeath a legal right of ownership to any who finds that which was mine. I do not know what compels me to transcribe my poor history alongside this meager instruction, but hopefully it can provide some meaning to someone who requires it.