"Well, I was eight or nine, I think most children manage similar mistakes around that age.... especially if they live attached to a forge." She smiled, though the memory hardly seemed a fond one; her hands had been in bandages and covered with poultices for weeks, and she could still remember all the time she had spent sobbing hysterically. Much of it had been for pity, more than out of pain, she thought now. "I do like it, I think. Being able to use magic, I mean. On the whole."
It had caused her problems—big problems—but it had also opened doors upon doors for her, in Orzammar and on the surface. She would never have been recruited into the Grey Wardens, had she not been a mage; this was... well, a blessing, wasn't it?
"Although the nausea the potions caused wasn't fun." It still wasn't fun, but Imenry didn't necessarily need to know that. "But... well, the onset was fast, although the dreams came before I ever exhibited any signs of ability." The dreaming was how they knew it had worked; no dwarf dreamed, for dwarves were cut off from the Fade. But now, dwarven mages did.