"Bitter. Cold. Sticky. It matches my former mood I guess." Alistair joked to himself as he climbed a steep and rocky path toward some dwarven ruins, which would make the driest spot to camp for the night.
As he eased into the cozy, dry, niche he noticed there was a discarded pack tucked behind a rock at the back of the alcove.
"Could have something entertaining or a snake." He chuckled as he casually pulled out the pack and sifted through the insides. There wasn't much, just a journal and dust.
He frowned when he pulled out the journal and tossed the pack aside. It looked old but well preserved and emitted a mild stench of cinnamon.
"Ward magic?" Alistair tossed the thing to the ground. If the journal belonged to a mage, who knows what opening it could release.
He was resigned to bury the thing until he saw the seal of the Grey Wardens on it, making him stare at it with a pout and tap his chin as he churned through thoughts of consequences.
"Bugger it. I'm a warden, I should know wardeny things." He attempted to open the journal, which sparked his fingers but easily flipped open.
It was as scout's journal tracking darkspawn activity across the uncharted Storm Coast terrain. They had come to investigate rumors of hordes using the northern coastlines to bypass the warring tribes. Alistair wondered if the tribes were the Alamarri ones. He read on.
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"I've been here for days, watching. The darkspawn move with precision, the likes of which I've never seen before. Something isn't right. The taint is getting louder. If my sacrifice can see my son live in a world without this corruption, I will pay whatever the cost. I pray that what our High Constable says about the Blight's coming is false. Yet, my eyes are seeing the signs of his truth. Maker watch over us all."
The rest of the journal was illegible from this point with the writing trailing the pages in scrawled lines until it stopped.
Alistair realized the ward was applied to preserve the message and ensure only a Warden could read and decipher the content.
Reading the scout's words drew him back to his memories of Ostagar and the Battle for Denerim. Blights. Corruption. It all had to end. Hadn't it gone on long enough?
"Andraste, this has been sitting untouched since the start of the Second Blight. Why did I happen find it?"
His eyes lingered on the scout's reason for being a warden.
This scout had left behind a son who likely didn't survive the onslaughts. But why would a father do this? What makes a parent willing to jump into a fire and leave a kid orphaned or have the mother struggle to raise their children alone? Especially during a time when the chance of living is extremely slim.
Wouldn't it have been better for them to all stay and die together?
He knew many wardens who left behind their families with the honorable intentions of keeping the lives of their loved ones safe from darkspawn. Unfortunately, some never got the chance because of the joining's cost.
"All this sacrifice, I thought I understood, but do I really?" He sighed, wondering what his tethered motivation was. He didn't have any loved one connections that bound him to the order, just the familiarity of duty.
Sounds of sparking magic interrupted his thoughts. A sickening tingling sensation began to aggravate his skin. The evening sky outside the niche was unnaturally churning with a storm.
Instinctively, he grabbed his gear and headed for the escalating danger.