The darkspawn had made it as far as the forest.

Not in any great numbers, thankfully, but the small band of hurlocks they stumbled across were accompanied by an ogre. It was a pretty frantic fight at first, until they got themselves sorted out, Alistair keeping the ogre occupied while the rest of them cut down the smaller darkspawn, then all of them teaming up to carve the thing to pieces.

Right had to think for a while to identify how long it had been since they'd last encountered darkspawn; over a month ago, down in the Deep Roads. They proceeded more cautiously after that, Right and Alistair having to make a conscious effort to remain aware of any warning tingle that would signal the presence of more darkspawn; they'd fallen out of the habit of feeling for them, in the weeks since their last encounter.

Unfortunately there were other dangers in the forest that their tainted senses were of no use in warning them about. It wasn't until a tree tried to stomp on Oghren that they discovered that here, not all plants were immobile, insentient things. They encountered more and more of the walking trees for a while, then bumped into a talking one. Which talked in rhymes.

"Heh. It's a poet tree. A poetry. Don't you get it?" Oghren said, and laughed much more loudly then the joke really deserved.

The tree, it developed, had a boon to ask of them; its acorn had been stolen recently, and it wanted them to find and return it. Right wondered what had stolen it – an exceptionally brave squirrel, perhaps? – and numbly agreed to the creature's request.

"What was that, my friend?" Zevran asked as they walked away, Right muttering darkly to himself.

"I said, the Ancestors must be browning their drawers they're laughing so hard at me. I've just accepted a quest to find a poet tree's lost nut," Right said, and shook his head. "The Ancestor's hate me. What did I ever do to deserve this!"

Zevran laughed.


More wandering after that. They found a very nice campsite, sitting strangely abandoned in a forest glade not far from where they're encountered the talking tree; as they poked around the site, a strange lethargy came over Right. It... bothered him. He couldn't place just why at first, and then recognized the feeling; the sloth demon they're encountered in the Tower, that had sent them to the Fade; they'd felt just like this as it lulled them into unconsciousness.

The sheer rush of terror he felt at the mere thought of being trapped in the Fade again woke him up, to find his companions all down, senseless. The pretty campsite was gone, revealed as a charnel pit of rotting bodies, in every stage from a gruesomely fresh elf – one of the missing hunters, perhaps – to ancient moldering bones. A demon erupted from the ground, and Right had to fight the thing on his own. Thankfully it was a comparatively small and weak one, and with the energy from his surge of fear still pounding through his veins, he managed to defeat it. As it faded away, his companions, woke, groaned, and discovered to their horror the true state of the glade.

Wynne insisted on them burying the remains – the fresher ones, anyway. Right found a few odds and ends that might help to identify the dead – and failing that, might be either useful or saleable – and made sure to pack them away.

After that they resumed their interrupted journey, deeper into the forest. More attacks by mindless werewolves, and then they came across an injured one, another of the talking ones, that begged them to kill her. Her name was Danyla, she said, and she told them that she'd been one of the Dalish elves before this curse happened to her. She asked them to bring word of her death to her husband, Athras, then again begged them to kill her, being in overwhelming pain from her injuries and the curse. Grimly, Right ended her misery, and they continued on, seeking the answer behind this mystery of the curse, of the speaking and unspeaking werewolves.

More bears, more walking trees, before they stumbled across a tiny campsite tucked in among some ruins, occupied by a crazed-looking hermit. He had a crude staff; a mage of some kind then, a hedge-wizard or perhaps an apostate. It was hard to draw any information out of the madman. He seemed deeply paranoid, and insisted on having questions answered for any question he'd answer in turn, and never seemed to believe the answers given, no matter what was said. He did, however, turn out to have the acorn that the Grand Oak had wanted, and Right easily traded for it with a ring he'd found at the demon's encampment.

The only route they could find forward after that was blocked somehow; a swirling mist filled it, and any attempts to penetrate the mist led them eventually right back out the way they'd entered. Right recalled the Grand Oak saying that the reward for the return of its acorn would be something that would make the forest think they were a part of it; perhaps that would get them past this seemingly magical ward.

They trekked back to where they'd seen the tree, and traded in the acorn for a chunk of its wood. By the time they'd dealt with yet another attack by werewolves, and a group of bears they disturbed at their feeding, it was late afternoon. Right hated to waste time, but decided it would be best for them to return to the Dalish encampment for another night's sleep before resuming explorations the next day.


Athras, the husband of the Dalish-turned-werewolf they'd slain was easy to find; he was almost pitifully grateful to hear of his wife's end, and pressed a small reward on them before withdrawing to mourn her privately.

Right frowned, and decided it was time to talk to Zathrian about the fact that at least some of the werewolves could talk.

Zathrian was dismissive of his claims, attributing Danyla's capacity for speech as likely being due to how recent her transformation had been, and brushing off mention of Swiftrunner and his ilk. Once again he reiterated that the only cure for his warriors was for Right to slay the spirit named Witherfang, and bring him its heart. After which he refused to discuss the subject any further.

Right decided not to press the elf for more information. More and more, he was coming to feel that the man was not trustworthy; even if he deigned to tell them more, Right didn't know if he could believe what Zathrian said.


The branch from the Grand Oak served it's purpose; the misty barrier faded away as they approached, and they were able to continue deeper into the forest.

They were approaching some ruins when Swiftrunner appeared, once again blocking their path.

"The forest has not been vigilant enough. Still you come," he growled. "You are stronger than we could have anticipated. The Dalish chose well. But you do not belong here, outsider. Leave this place!"

Right snorted. "You don't actually expect me to leave, do you?" he asked.

"You came even though we warned you not to. You are as treacherous as the Dalish. We will not allow harm to come to Witherfang!"

"I've no intention of harming Witherfang. I want to talk."

"I do not believe you. I will not risk believing you," Swiftrunner snarled. "You are an intruder in our home! You come to kill, as all your kind do! We have learned this lesson well. Here Witherfang protects us. Here we learn our names and are beloved! We will defend Witherfang and this place with our lives!"

And he attacked. Right swore, and drew his weapons. The talking werewolves were somewhat better fighters then their unspeaking brethren, but not by much; in a very short time, most of Swiftrunner's packmates were down and dead, Swiftrunner himself fallen and at the mercy of Right and his group.

A white form leapt down from a nearby bank, crashing into Right and sending him sprawling backwards. A huge wolf, its legs and haunches wrapped with odd growths, like the woody stems of climbing vines. It snarled, holding them at bay for a moment, just long enough for Swiftrunner to scramble to his feet and escape, before turning and dashing off after him.

"That would have been Witherfang, I think," Wynne said calmly.

"Certainly matched the description Zathrian gave us," Right agreed.

As they continued toward the nearby ruins – seemingly the home of the werewolves – Alistair stepped forward to walk by Right's side.

"Why are you so insistent on wanting to talk with these creatures?" he asked curiously. "Wouldn't it be easier just to kill them?"

"Probably," Right agreed. "But I'd like to know more about them. I've made decisions before on too little knowledge, and regretted it later. Now... I'd rather know more about just what exactly the situation is, before coming to a decision, if it's possible."

Alistair nodded in understanding. Neither of them needed to speak Connor's name to know what previous decision Right was referring to.