Work Text:
A simple missive with no heraldry to mark it, its opening words —Warden-Commander— lay scratched beneath a single line.
The second paragraph, likewise, opens with an effaced word. Unlike the first, this was not done with a perfunctory stroke, but rather repeated dagger-like incisions of the quill. It’s impossible to tell what lay entombed beneath. It could have been a name. Or a title.
From then on, the words issue forth with nary a correction. A flowing script filled with rigorously straight letters, marching through paper like foot-soldiers across the field. Careful, precise, and deliberate.
Warden,
If you’re reading these words, then you know their meaning and purpose: my Calling has come. By the time this letter reaches you, I may have even decided to die decently. Or as close to it as I could get.
All I own I left in the warehouse in Denerim’s market district. You know the one. If memory serves, your predecessor had stashed his own belongings there so many years ago. (I am not blind to the irony). The armor of River Dane is there as well. I doubt it will serve you much. But you have earned it at the Landsmeet, and has been yours ever since. Do with it as you will; melt it if it gives you pleasure. I only ask you let no Orlesian have it.
I must ask you, my friend, for one last mercy. You know my daughter well, and must, by now, be familiar with her peculiar brand of obstinacy. She will accept no words of my surrender, not even coming from me. Tell Anora—something suitable. You will make do; much better than I could, at any rate.
Yours,
Warden Loghain