For the most part, Alderic had spent the days of their tedious journey from the Tower in silence -- not distant nor anti-social in the usual Templar fashion, he never was, just simply quiet. He was still friendly enough, as always, and participated in conversations if he needed to -- which wasn't often, considering how eager most Mages were to get chatty with a Templar, least of all one who had been sent to babysit them during one of their few chances at freedom. However, though he always remained attentive and vigilant, the moment discussion moved away from him, he found himself lost in thought.
It wasn't the experience of being out of the Tower that had made him so contemplative, not like the others. He'd been on his share of Mage hunts in his decade as a Templar, and had traveled to every corner of Ferelden imaginable looking for Apostates and Maleficars. Though he'd spent very little time in each place, the sensation of the wild outdoors wasn't so fascinating for him as it was for the Mages, he imagined. Refreshing, certainly, but not a new and foreign thing. In fact, traveling across the expanses of the Bannorn really only gave him a mild sense of nostalgia, remembering a long past childhood spent in the elements, laboring in sweeping gold fields.
No, it was the purpose of their journey that kept capturing his thoughts.
He was to become a Grey Warden.
Alderic turned the words over and over in his mind, and every time, they felt just as strange. He was to become a Grey Warden. An avid reader, he was no stranger to the tales of Grey Wardens past, of their conquests in conquering Blights. People still told stories of the Warden who had saved Ferelden only fifteen years before, and even though he knew them to be true, somehow they had still been filed away in his mind as similar to fairy tales. These were things you heard, things you read about, things you admired at a distance -- not stories that one actually became a part of.
Or so he thought.
He had sworn his life to the service of the Maker, unquestioningly. Whatever lay in his future was the Maker's will, not his, and thus he'd never given much thought to what might be in store for him. Though, truth be told, he had never seen himself being anywhere other than the Tower, and he had never desired it, unlike many of the other residents within the stone walls. From childhood, he had always aspired to be a Templar, and could think of nothing else he wanted to devote the entirety of his life to.
Yet, here he was, pushed out, that gate closed behind him. After all, in all the tales of Grey Wardens, they never stopped being Grey Wardens, never returned to simply being what they were before.
Still, he could think of no higher calling in the service of the Maker, he supposed. He was to become a Grey Warden, and devote his life to slaying Darkspawn, evidence of mankind's greatest transgression. If this is what his Lord desired of him, then who was he to question what fate lie ahead of him?