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Allaslen is not surprised, when her Calling comes. She has known for a while now that she is getting closer and closer to it.
She tells her Fereldan recruits first, sits with them in their grief for all that she feels a strange disconnect from it, and then she pens letters to Orlais. One to the Orlesian Warden-Commander, with all the formality and manners left in her. One to Beata, whose own calling will come soon. One to Camille, a reassurance of her strength and power, a promise that she can stand alone. Others, too, to all who will mourn her. She writes until her hand and heart ache, and then she returns to her recruits.
She gathers them close, and splits up her possessions between them. Weapons are simple, each to the person who can best wield them. But weapons are not all she has. Velanna gets anything Dalish, of course. The rest, she offers up and lets them decide. She will miss them, she realises as she watches them talk. In what little life she has left, she will think of them. This eclectic crew are her recruits. She will leave them with everything she can, her possessions and the wisdom she can impart in her last few days.
When the time comes, she considers leaving in secret, but she cannot do that to her Wardens. She lets them hug her and weep. She tells them to keep their spirits up. She hopes they will endure. She wishes she could have introduced Camille to them, and hopes they will meet some day. She knows, though, that she can do nothing now but leave. She walks out of the Keep with nothing but a dagger and the clothes on her back.
As she walks, legs aching and corruption setting in, she thinks something that is not quite a prayer. She hopes her Wardens will be safe. She hopes Beata’s own Calling will be as merciful as they ever are. She hopes all those who she has ever trained will flourish. She hopes those she leaves behind will not be devoured by loss. She hopes Falon’Din will lead her to peace at her clan’s side.
She faces her end unafraid.