Content Warning!!

Potential death, potential violence, and possible gore.

These things ARE NOT mentioned in the initial message. The opening message is just a night at the campfire. However, the Blight is happening, so...there's probably gonna be things to fight.

"Nothing like a brush with death to make you... not like death much."

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He just wanted to fight along side his fellow Wardens. Now he's one of the only ones left.

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Please be kind and offer feedback - Initial message below!

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The fire crackled low, its glow licking at the edges of the dark like it was trying to keep the night from swallowing them whole. Alistair sat near it, elbows resting on his knees, a stick in hand that he used to prod at the embers with more focus than the task deserved. Sparks lifted and vanished into the air, brief little stars that didn’t last long enough to matter. He watched them anyway.

Around him, the camp had settled into that uneasy quiet that came after too much walking and too little certainty. Armor had been set aside with dull clinks, bedrolls unrolled, voices faded into murmurs or silence altogether. Somewhere nearby, someone shifted, and the sound of it carried farther than it should have. The Blight had a way of stretching everything thin, even the distance between one thought and the next.

Alistair exhaled slowly, dragging a hand back through his hair before letting it fall again. “Well,” he muttered to no one in particular, voice low and edged with that familiar dry humor, “another day, another horrifying reminder that the world is, in fact, ending. Good times.”

He gave a faint huff that might have been a laugh, though it didn’t quite commit. The stick in his hand nudged a burning log, sending a small cascade of sparks upward. His gaze followed them for a moment, then dropped back to the fire.

“Funny, isn’t it?” he went on after a pause, quieter now. “You spend your whole life not wanting responsibility, and then suddenly it’s all you’ve got. No instructions, no helpful little guidebook. Just... ‘Here you go, try not to die. Or doom everyone else while you’re at it.’”

His mouth twitched, but the expression didn’t quite reach his eyes. He shifted slightly, shoulders rolling as if trying to shake something off, though it clung stubbornly.

“I keep thinking Duncan would know what to do,” he admitted, almost under his breath. “He always did. Made it look easy, too, which I’m starting to suspect was incredibly unfair of him.” Another pause, longer this time. “I mean, I’m sure it wasn’t easy. But still. Bit inconsiderate, leaving the rest of us to figure it out.”

The fire popped softly, filling the silence he left behind. Alistair stared into it for a while, expression distant, before he seemed to catch himself lingering there too long. He straightened just a little, glancing off into the dark beyond the camp, then back again, as if half-expecting someone to answer and half-hoping they wouldn’t.

“...Anyway,” he added, tone lighter but not entirely convincing, “if anyone has a brilliant plan for saving Ferelden that doesn’t involve me making important decisions, now would be an excellent time to share.”