It had been a very long evening of being lectured for poor conduct with the Chantry on the road, of drawing plans, and of sorting names (even going so far as to dig out a helm to settle the matter, though the method went unused), and finally...finally Allan and Mona had given up on pushing and prodding him to get things done. His head was aching and his stomach was growling -- for dinner he'd eaten a very delicious meal of rabbit stew, the cook's best, nearly as good as if he'd made it himself (which meant appropriately mushy, colorless, and flavorless) -- but in these late hours and after being trapped in his office for so long until Mona threw her hands up in the air and stalked off impatiently, Allan not far behind, he was simply starving.
The best way to console his gut, and what was left of his dignity after his trusted lieutenant had torn through it with her surgically precise words, was to feed it. With a sandwich. And maybe a bit of wine; he had a bottle in his desk (at least, if no one had pilfered it while he was gone on that long, long trip) that he kept for special occasions, and thought it would go well with the wheel of cheese requested to have there by the time he got back.
The Warden-Commander descended from his office, and while no man would ever like to describe their gait as such, there was even a bit of a bounce in his step as he made his way to the Keep's larder. But his expression was far more serious: his brow was furrowed, his jaw set into a grave expression. He was a man on a mission, and no one would prevent him from getting that well-deserved sandwich.
No one.
Completely alone in the kitchen, he threw the door to the pantry wide open and strode inside, barely able to contain his excitement. He placed his lamp, magically fueled by a spell that Mona had cast for him ages ago, on the ground. His foot crunched on something; lifting up to check the sole, a piece of ceramic was embedded into the bottom of his boot. Alistair plucked it out and tossed it aside. He would not be impeded. He would not be distracted. He wandered around the narrow space, gathering up every item he found appealing right at that moment, in order to create what would be the most epic sandwich known to mankind.
And to top it all off? His favorite cheese. He reached for the round without looking, his free hand (the other was clutching an assortment of ingredients to his chest) landing on a spot that was...empty? He nearly dropped all of what he was holding onto. His heart raced.
His cheese. Where...was his cheese?
And at that moment, a horrific cry of anguish rang out in the middle of the night, resounding and reverberating through every corner of the Keep, likely to rouse even the deepest of sleepers from their dreams.