"Was there a city here once?" Alistair's voice echoes off the stone walls, rippling and distorting as it bounces about. The ruins that they now walk cautiously through are certainly large enough to suggest a past life as some sort of city or complex, with halls branching off in every which way. Some are crumbling and collapsed while others are intact, if dark and aged, covered in dust and shadow. "It's elven, it must be, but…I didn't know they ever lived beneath the ground?"

"Well, you see, Alistair," Morrigan's voice is dripping with sarcasm and Talvinder would love it if she would be a little quieter, what with the way everything is rattling around inside her ears, "when you want to build something up, it needs to have a foundation. Those go down."

"You and I both know that this is deeper than a foundation, Morrigan."

"'You and I both'? What I know is that these ruins are full of magic, and you are an idiot. I am unsure of what, exactly, you know."

"Shh, did you hear that?" Savreen throws out her arm, signaling for the others to stop, and leans cautiously around a corner. Morrigan and Alistair both fall silent as stone, and Tali strains to listen, to hear whatever it is that Sav has heard. After a few agonizing seconds, she can just barely make out the sound of tap, tap, tapping.

"It sounds like claws." Ranjit is the first to answer, whispering so as not to alert who—or what—ever it is making the strange tapping noise down the long stone corridor. It comes in regular intervals, like footfalls, and Tali can think of no other explanation than the one Ranjit has offered: claws on stone, the sound of a wolf pacing back and forth.

"I will go first." Sav is around the corner before anyone can object, and Tali tries not to let her heart beat faster, not as each thrum of blood through her veins burns. She can't help it, though, not as Savreen's voice rings out. "We are here to parley, nothing more."

She is met, unfortunately, by a loud howl, high pitched and keening. The sound sets Sher and Abarie to growling, their hackles raised and teeth bared, and it nearly splits Tali's skull, and she claps her hands over her ears in agony. Dazed, she isn't sure exactly what happens for the next few moments. A needle is pressing into each side of her skull, just above her temples. She shakes her head but that only makes it worse, setting the world to tilting like a boat in a storm. When she regains her faculties, though, she sees Savreen, back in front of them, a small frown on her face as she speaks.

"It has alerted the others, there can be no doubt of that." Strangely, Tali thinks she sees Ranjit scowl. Whether his irritation is directed at Savreen or the situation at hand, she cannot tell. "But if Witherfang is truly their leader, perhaps the great wolf will have a different response than violence. It has only ever seemed to watch us, after all."

"Is it really wise to let them know that we are here? That we are coming?" Ranjit asks, looking around as though he expects werewolves to approach en masse at any moment. Sav shakes her head almost as though to dislodge Ranjit's words from her ears.

"They have known that we are coming since we entered the forest. It does not make any difference now whether they know we are in their ruins or not." Ranjit's response is immediate and pointed.

"Then why do you look so displeased?" Sav fixes him with a sharp look, one that seems strange to Tali, and she does not answer his question.

"We will continue through the ruins." As Sav turns away, she brings a hand to her shoulder, rubbing it with her palm, the heel of her hand. It only makes Ranjit's gaze intensify, his expression darkening. Tali says nothing of it, though, and instead she simply follows, silent and trying to ignore the flames spiraling out from the bite on her arm.

The deeper they go into the ruins, the more curious Savreen becomes at their origin—and at their destruction. The great hallways continue to branch off from each other, huge stone blocks moving almost organically, like the roots of some enormous tree spreading through the soil. It is as if time turns into a sort of puzzle, one that reminds her of the pockets of Darkspawn trapped in the forest above. There are patches of the place that are almost untouched by the passage of the ages: mosaics and frescoes that gleam with color, halls that smell of candle smoke, spaces where the faint sound of retreating footsteps still lingers on the air. A few steps later, a few paces down, though, it always changes. Rubble litters the floor, whole sections of corridor collapsed in on themselves, lichen and mushroom crawling over stone rather than paint and tile. But still, she can feel the sense that they and the werewolves are not the only ones breathing the air of this place. Sher can feel it too: the dog growls at any provocation, staring down the shadows.

Perhaps it just is a side effect of the scratch on her shoulder, some heady paranoia. Savreen has a hard time telling what is and what isn't. By this point, she knows that the curse has infected her, too. She is certain of it. Her head swims slightly, and she can feel the burning sensation running through her limbs. Not just a simple scrape. More than that, though, she sees shapes, more of them as they move through the ruins. Faint outlines of people, elves, memories.

"Is this place…is it not strange?" she whispers to Morrigan as they come out upon a huge room, larger than the great hall at Highever Keep by at least three times. The volume of her voice matters not, and the great arched stone space pulls it from her lips, magnifying it in the dusty emptiness that spreads out before them. Only it isn't empty, not to Savreen's eyes. Down two flights of ornately carven stone steps, all across the marble floors, there are shapes, figures, beings of greenish light that seem only just less indistinct than motes of dust. But they are there.

"'Tis most unusual," Morrigan responds, her neck craned as she attempts to see the far side of the room. "The Veil is especially thin here—'tis as though the Fade presses out against it at every place they meet." There's an element of academic curiosity to her voice, the kind that might make Savreen think the witch would jump at the chance to remain here, were there not a Blight to fight.

"Quite," Savreen says, still watching the figures below. She would like to leave—sooner rather than later.

Morrigan's eyes remain almost glued to their surroundings as they move through the great room, eagerly poring over every inch of visible stone. The vaulted ceilings seem to disappear into shadow overhead, and Savreen wonders just how deep they've gone into the ground beneath the forest for that to be possible.

"Strange that a people should leave such a place so suddenly," Sten observes, his own eyes trained on the remnants of what appears to be a feast table, set in the middle of a raised dais. "Some great catastrophe must have occurred, but what could it be to leave parts of the place almost untouched?" Sidestepping a shadowy figure, Savreen tries to answer, but her voice feels stuck in her throat. She thinks the figure can see her—it feels as though it looks right at her. She will not be afraid. She must not be afraid.

"Perhaps a plague," Morrigan suggests, stepping up to the dais. She draws a finger across the table's surface, weaving it around the shapes of ancient goblets and plates and dishes, and then brings it up to her face with a frown. "Or perhaps something more. There is no dust on this table. Does that not strike you as odd?"

"You said yourself that the Veil was thin here," says Zevran, using his arm to push himself up onto the dais as well, notably avoiding the stairs that sit just by the waist-high stone platform. "Perhaps the spirits of the forest enjoy their cleaning, eh?" As he speaks, he lopes over to the table, running his own fingers over the dinnerware. "Ah, not a spot of tarnish. Fine silver indeed." He picks up a knife, still sharp, still shining, and twirls it through his fingers before slipping it into his belt, where it looks just as, if not more, new and well-kept as his other daggers. For whatever reason, the cleanliness unnerves Savreen more.

"We should keep moving." She says it bluntly, not wishing to argue with the others, eager to be going. The unease is strong, prickling over her skin like rough wool. It ripples out into fear, shivering along her arms, and she rubs her hands together nervously. The sensation only grows as Morrigan loses interest in the table, stepping back down to continue wandering across the room. Despite her desire to move, though, Savreen finds herself lingering against her better judgement, eyes trained on the shapes that suddenly seem to be sitting there, in the space Morrigan has just vacated. They are watching her, and she can feel it. Her heart leaps into her throat and she turns to run, blind panic suddenly taking over.

In turning, though, she finds more shapes, more spirits—she can't rationalize them as anything else, can't think of anything else they might reasonably be. She doesn't want to cry out, doesn't want to give away anything that she sees, not when it's so plain that none of the others are so afflicted. She worries that the curse is driving her mad. So she closes her eyes and counts to ten.

When she opens them again, a formless face of green mist hovers a hairsbreadth from her own. She screams, now, and steps back. Her foot catches on something, she's not sure what, and she goes down to the floor, hard. Above her, the spirit recoils similarly, as do all the others. She doesn't understand, but her heart hammers heavy in her chest, so heavy that she can feel the skin of her stomach bouncing. The terror takes over, washing through her in a cold wave.

At the same time, the spirits all shudder, as though responding to Savreen's own fear. Their shapes stutter and move strangely, too fast or too slow, some back a few paces and others forward.

"Warden." Sten steps in front of her, and he looks down on her with quiet and nearly indiscernible concern, but concern nonetheless.

"I-I tripped," Savreen says. "Lost my balance." She is grateful that Sten doesn't offer her his hand. He knows at least the value of her dignity. Up she stands, the fear somewhat lessened, and she's able to think, now. The spirits are responding to her fear, of that much she's sure, but now they seem to be moving as though on a track, like clockwork figures atop a music box: dancers only ever able to repeat the same set steps.

They run and rush, some figures falling, vanishing in the crush of shapes. After a few brief seconds, they flicker and reappear at the beginning of their journey, forever running, never moving. Uncertain, Savreen looks to Tali. She finds her cousin transfixed, with glassy, fevered eyes wide and mouth slightly agape, staring at the same sight none of the others can see. Savreen turns back to the spirits, caught in some memory of terror. She watches them, eyes drawn in, mesmerized. She can feel herself growing calmer, now that she knows—though she isn't sure how she knows, or why she is so confident that she knows—that the spirits mean not to hurt them.

But there is another feeling, bubbling up beneath everything. It is terror, yes, but she knows somehow that it is not her own. It is whispered to her across the Veil, and she can feel it, but she can also hear it, inside her veins and within her fingertips. There is something coming, like some great curtain, or wave, or a gust of wind—something that is huge and heavy and forever changing, uncontrollable. It is the source of the spirits' terror, that much she knows, and it is always coming, or it is always here, or it will always be here now that it has come, and there is no escaping.

With a shiver, Savreen rips herself from the spot where she stands, frozen on the floor. She tries to ignore the feeling that she has severed something from herself as she does.

"Apologies. I—it was a trick of the light. We should move." The others say nothing. Whether it is because they think nothing of her lapse of focus or because they do not know what to say, Savreen isn't sure. Tali at least understands, that much is clear, most likely as a side effect of the curse. As they continue on, though, Savreen cannot shake the feeling that there is something chasing them.

A great catstrophe, indeed.

They keep working their way through the ruins. Torches lit with strange green fire spring to light as they pass, unearthly and cold, but they light the way nevertheless. From time to time, they catch glimpses of the werewolves, sentries disappearing around corners, growling and scrambling off. Perhaps they see Witherfang among them; Savreen notes a few flashes of white fur but it's hard to know for sure. She is sure, however, that she can still sense the great presence of the spirits' memory. It feels sleeping and large, unimaginable and incalculable in scope, heavy like a curtain of stone.

"'Twould be folly to say this with any certainty," Morrigan says after what feels like another mile spent traversing the tangle of tunnels, halls, and corridors, "which is why I am completely uncertain when I say that the mosaics here, the architectural motifs—everything seems older than anything I have ever heard my mother tell of. As old almost as the stories tell of Arlathan." The buzzing of pain and fire in Savreen's limbs does not make her particularly amenable to academic discussion, but she finds her interest piqued regardless.

"What gives you that impression?" she asks, looking at another broken mosaic as they pass it. It looks no different to her than any others, portraying some fragmented image of a huntress and lit by wan green light, but then again, she is not remotely versed in the periodization of elven mosaic art, not in any lighting. "And how would you know?" Morrigan's ears twitch slightly as they pick their way through another ruined portion of hallway, kicking pebbles and rubble this way and that.

"As I said, my mother told me much. She was familiar with elven history. Perhaps a symptom of such an extended life." There's a hint of sarcasm; there is more than a hint of anger. "There were many ruins within the Wilds, along its edges, in the places where humans did not dare settle. She took me to those places from time to time, and then I ventured there myself when I was old enough." Morrigan's voice gains a far-off quality as she speaks. She pauses for a short time, her brow furrowing as she considers her next words. "Much like your Warden outpost." Savreen can't help but snort in surprise. Already, that encounter seems ages ago. Years, even. Along with the pain in her shoulder and the rest of her body, the concept of time has the effect of dizzying her slightly. She reaches out a hand toward the wall, aiming to steady herself as the corners of her vision dim. She seems to be lightheaded, or at least, that's how she would describe it if she could think of words. Sher tries to steady her, bracing against her legs, but it isn't enough.

"Savreen." She shakes her head and it doesn't help, so instead she tries breathing in through her nose and out through her mouth, like Nan used to show her, meant for dealing with the immense heat of the kitchen in summer. "Savreen!" The urgently whispered hiss hits her ears at the same moment her hand touches stone, but it isn't a wall. It's a bust, placed atop a pedestal in an alcove, and when her hand hits it, it falls to the floor with a clatter and a crash that resounds inside Savreen's own head. Shards of glassy rock go skittering out along the floor and Savreen finally reaches the wall, but she doesn't understand the sudden switch to whispering, nor the urgency of whoever it is speaking to her.

"I'm quite alright," she says to no one in particular, spots of blue and purple and stark white winking in and out of her vision. Perhaps she's a bit too loud? The whisperer hushes her, but she can't understand why. "What? What's—"

Her words are interrupted by a loud howl, far too close. It doesn't make sense, doesn't seem to signify. Where were the werewolves before? Why are they here now?

"Savreen, shhh." Ranjit's face is in front of hers, and he is hushing her again, the nerve!

"Now you intend to shhh me?" she says, anger the only thing she can think of beyond the warbling shapes and colors at the edge of her vision. Everything is disorientation, and she forgets herself. Her head feels both too light and too heavy, her limbs impossibly large, doubly impossible to move. "You shhh me, I'll shhh you!" Ranjit hesitates for a moment and then he brings a hand up to Savreen's mouth, silencing her. She fights the urge to bite him that washes through her, sending her mouth salivating. Are her teeth sharper? They almost feel like it when she runs her tongue across them.

"They can hear you," he whispers, his voice barely above a breath in her ear. That stills her, though she still struggles with her lightheadedness, even as Ranjit pulls his hand away again. The sound of footfalls, heavy and numerous, practically rings down the hallway, curling around the corner, coming closer. All the others are still as death, staring down the hallway with hands on their weapons. Among them, Tali trembles. A fresh wave of blood blooms under the bandage on her elbow, red leaching across beige. Savreen can see the muscles in Tali's jaw working as she clenches her teeth, biting down on nothing, and she hears the faint sound of a suppressed groan just as Tali looks over at her, pupils blown wide, the grey of her irises a thin ring.

The force of the curse hits Savreen then, like a wave of hot air released from an oven. She can feel its rage, the anger and the agony both sinking their fangs into her flesh. Her gasp is involuntary, and it catches Ranjit's attention, pulling his gaze back from seeking the source of the sound. His eyes flick to her shoulder, and there's a certain hardness within them. The curse grows louder, more cacophonous, and Savreen can feel not just the fury, but something she thinks is meant to ground her, to keep her present, a buzzing hum of…reassurance? It makes no sense to her, but she is sure of one thing: the werewolves are only coming closer, and if she can sense the curse in them, then they can surely sense it in Tali. They can surely sense it in her. The werewolves know without a doubt that they are there.

"Draw your sword," she chokes out through gritted teeth, warning Ranjit.

His hand flies to his hip, grabbing the hilt of his sword, but at that same moment the werewolves round the corner. Through the sound of the curse and all its crackling pain, Savreen recognizes Swiftrunner, and her heart plummets. The werewolf looks even less inclined to parley now than it did before in the woods, and the yellow of its eyes burns into Savreen's skin.

"You were warned." The voice scrapes against the inside of Savreen's skull. She wonders, not for the first time, if they are in too deep, if they should have avoided the forest. "Why do you persist?" Savreen has to stand, now, she knows it. Weakness will not do, not even the perception of it. She reaches out, bracing herself against the wall, and pulls herself up to her feet.

"All we want is to talk." Swiftrunner snarls, and it feels like a string of rage is plucked inside Savreen's own stomach. She bites the inside of her cheek and continues, despite the throbbing in her head. "We came to the forest with questions. You let us ask none of them, nor did you ask any of your own." The other two werewolves accompanying Swiftrunner watch Savreen with careful eyes, somehow lupine disarmingly human at the same time.

"We have no questions for the elves and their allies!"

"We are on the same side!" Tali cries out, and Savreen tries not to flinch. "All we want is to end the curse. Not to kill you, or Witherfang, or the elves."

"Lies do not become those who are at our mercy. The curse will soon take you, and we will know the truth." Tali's face gains a slight pallor to it, the warmth of her skin fading greyish.

"I'm not lying." The werewolf begins to pace, its heavy paws clacking across the floor. The others behind Swiftrunner watch it, as though waiting for a decision. "What reason would I have to lie?"

"You seek to gain our trust, and then betray us."

"Why? Why would any of us want to betray you?" Savreen watches the werewolves with no small amount of fear. They could decide at any moment that they are done talking, done listening, and though the werewolves number only four, Savreen knows that both she and Tali are bound to be no use in a fight at this rate.

"Swiftrunner, the human has—"

"Silence!" Swiftrunner interrupts one of its fellows with a dangerously raised paw, claws curling fiercely in the green light. It glances at each member of the party in turn, eyes lingering on Tali and Savreen the longest, and then it lets out a slightly swallowed roar. "The Lady will hear your words. She will decide if you mean good or ill." There is a threat all too plainly couched in Swiftrunner's words, but all the same, it is more than Savreen dared to hope.

The closer they come to wherever it is Swiftrunner is leading them, the less Tali's veins sear with the feeling of burning rage, liquid and flammable. It feels like a weight is slowly being lifted from her ribs, like the wound in her arm is floating into numbness. It's not that the curse is gone, but it feels as though she can push through some of it, even as she knows it's there. Her mind feels her own. At her side, Alistair keeps a careful eye on her. She can feel it, and she's grateful for it, but she's not sure if she's the one who needs it, not after Sav's near collapse in the corridor.

There are no more shapes, no more spirit figures this deep in the ruins. It seems as though they're coming to their heart, wherever or whatever that might be. There are fewer bends, less halls that lead off to other places. The air here feels heavier, somehow, and though there are the same number of torches glistening with greenish flame, it seems darker.

When they come to a final set of huge doors, ancient wood still standing somehow, Talvinder's head has begun to buzz with the feeling of whatever lies beyond them. There are two guards, and they step aside as Swiftrunner approaches, banging on the doors to signal the werewolf's arrival. The doors' hinges squeal and squeak as they open inward.

Beyond those doors is a room that is somehow full of life, of greenery and flora. Trees grow between the cracks of stones, vines crawling up the walls. Roots twirl around each other in lacy lattices, and everywhere Tali looks she can see some new plant. Everything grows and glows down here, in this strange room beneath the earth, out of time. Tali and the others are ushered inside, and it takes everything in her not to crane her head around. The smell is strange and heady, like a meadow, full of the nectar of countless flowers and the scent of earth and leaves. It quells the faint remnant of rage that Tali feels under the curse, like dirt beneath her fingernails scrubbed free. She breathes in once, twice, deep and seeking.

"I bid thee welcome, mortals. I am the Lady of the Forest." Tali looks to the speaker in a flash and finds that she knows the woman's eyes—if she can call her a woman.

It would certainly be more accurate to call the speaker a spirit, for that is what she clearly is. Her form is flesh, but it is knit together with branches, vines, all manner of greenery. Long tangles of brown hair sweep behind her like a cape, studded with flowers, brushing against the vines that cover her skin like clothes as she approaches Tali and the others. Swiftrunner growls disapprovingly as she draws closer, and she pauses in front of him, raising a hand of branches to his muzzle.

"Swiftrunner. Hush. No harm will come to me." Mollified, the werewolf steps back, joining the ranks of other werewolves assembled there, but his suspicion is unabated as the Lady comes to stand in front of Tali. She looks to the bandage on Tali's arm, saying nothing of it, but Tali knows that she knows. "The time has come to speak with these outsiders, to set our rage aside." The lady's features are strange, almost blurred, as though an artist had attempted to sketch her from a distant memory. Her eyes, though, Tali recognizes: too green, too glowing. "I apologize on Swiftrunner's behalf. He struggles with his nature." She turns toward Sav, eyeing the bloodied scrape on her shoulder with a raised eyebrow. Savreen's face gives nothing away under the Lady's gaze, not even as she bows her head and speaks, offering deference to the Lady.

"As do we all." The Lady regards Sav for a moment before nodding. She turns back toward the werewolves gathered around, and her voice echoes against the stone, like the sound of wind through the forest.

"Truer words were never spoken. But few could claim the same as these creatures: that their very nature is a curse forced upon them."

"We seek to end that curse, Lady." When the Lady looks back, Savreen bows again. It is not enough for Swiftrunner, though. He growls once more and steps forward.

"They lie! They were sent by the Dalish—" The Lady interrupts him sternly, a hand raised as though to hold him back.

"Their hearts are true, Swiftrunner. Do not fear." Finally, Swiftrunner seems cowed, and he bows his own head, falling silent once more. "No doubt you have questions."

"You are Witherfang, aren't you?" Tali asks, drawing the Lady's attention toward herself. The Lady smiles, teeth sharp.

"I am the very forest. I am the wolf that guards it. I am the sap of the trees. I am the earth as it decays, and I am the green heart of all that grows. I am Witherfang, but Witherfang is not only me." Tali nods, trying to pretend that she understands. "Zathrian told you that he needed Witherfang's heart to end the curse, did he not?" Tali looks at Sav for approval, and when Sav nods, she does too, answering the Lady's question in a slightly hesitant voice.

"Yes, my lady." The Lady sighs.

"As I thought. There is more to it than that. Zathrian must give up much of his own to end the curse, for he is the one who created it, even though it was not his intention."

"Was not his intention? I do not understand." Savreen's voice is curious, mirroring Tali's own thoughts. She knows little of magic, to be sure, as she has told Morrigan countless times. But she had thought that curses required at least some intent.

"Allow me to explain it, then." The Lady turns and walks back through the room, towards a dais upon which sits a chair of living wood, beckoning the others to follow her. "Many ages ago, a great catastrophe befell the world. For a long time, chaos reigned. The Dalish came back to this forest to find it hostile, full of anger and pain, and in an effort to stay the chaos, Zathrian called upon his gods, chief among them the wanderer, the protector, the trickster, the Dread Wolf." Tali's head practically spins as the Lady speaks, and she finds herself straining to concentrate. The pain of her bite wound wars against the numbing calm of the Lady's presence, and she winces. Alistair looks at her with concern, and she smiles weakly. It does not reassure him.

"By sacrifice of his own blood, Zathrian bound the spirit of the forest's anger, of her pain, to the offered vessel: a great wolf. For a time, the wolf was blind to thought, to reason." Sadness enters the Lady's voice, sadness and something like shame. "The rage still within its heart, the rage of all that had been lost, the pain of so many deaths and of the sundering of the world, infected its very mind. Zathrian had bound the spirit, but he still could not undo what had been done, and so the rage and the pain festered, and as rage and pain are wont to do, they twisted the magic of Zathrian's sacrifice and of his god's protection."

With somber eyes, the Lady looks to each and every one of the werewolves in turn. She speaks with regret.

"The great wolf's bite became as a poison, corrupting those it infected, twisting their forms and turning them, too, into the very same avatar of the god, the form provided so long ago as a sacrifice. For many long years, so it was. The infected creatures, savage and monstrous, were driven deeper into the forest, pitiful and mindless, no different than any animal."

"Until I found you, my lady," Swiftrunner interrupts, and though the Lady's voice is full of shame and sorrow, his is soft, loving. "You gave me peace." His words make the Lady smile, and she holds her hand out to him once more. As he approaches her, setting a paw within her grip, she continues.

"Together, we found control, understanding. The corruption could not be undone, but in company, we found a way to soothe the rage. As he brought others to me, the clarity strengthened. The curse was not ended, but it was quelled."

"I don't understand," Savreen says. The motion of looking over to her makes Tali slightly dizzy, and she does her best to steady herself. "Why then did you ambush the Dalish? If you could live like this, with humanity—why?" The Lady sighs, but Swiftrunner growls, tightening his grip on her hand. She tries to placate him, speaking gently.

"Word was sent to Zathrian each and every time the landships passed this way, asking him to come. He has always ignored us." It does not work. Swiftrunner, already angered, speaks with a snarl.

"We spread the curse to his people as a last resort. No longer will he be blind to our suffering—the suffering he caused. He must end the curse, or see his own perish!"

"Swiftrunner, peace." With her other hand, the Lady smooths the fur of Swiftrunner's arm, branching fingers running through its length. The werewolf relents in his rage, his hackles lowering, his lip covering his teeth once more. "Please, mortals. You must go to him. Bring him here. If he sees these creatures, hears their plight, surely he will end the curse."

"If he has ignored you for so long, my lady," Sav asks with a frown, "how do you think we will convince him now?"

"Tell him…" She hesitates, but then continues, her resolve strengthened. "Tell him this: that if Zathrian does not come now, if he does not end the curse, he will never find Witherfang. He will never cure his people." Sav nods, and as she does, Tali feels her dizziness intensify. Something warm and heavy runs down her lip, and she brings a hand to her face. It is blood, and it trickles from her nose with increasing speed. The flavor of salt and metal floods her mouth. "You must go now. Your companion does not have much time left to her." The Lady's words ring in Tali's ears, and she looks back up at her, a faraway feeling of alarm registering in her mind. "The curse will not transform her." Tali doesn't understand, not right away. "Nor will it you. Your blood already holds too much magic. It will burn through you. This is my warning."

Tali stumbles, her knees giving way, but Alistair is right next to her. His arm is around her waist, holding her upright. Abarie whines anxiously.

"We understand," says Sav, and when Tali looks at Alistair, she sees unfettered fear in his eyes.