Aedan Cousland felt the sword slip from his fingers as he fell to his knees. Above him the man grunted, pulling his own blade free. Beneath Aedan's arm it had slipped, striking deep and true where the armor was weakest. And still the man was hidden beneath his helm, a nameless, faceless servant of Arl Howe. Vengeance… there should be… vengeance. As he sank beside the already still figure of his father, Aedan could only hope that Fergus was still alive to take it.

Lunging aside, Duran Aeducan narrowly escaped the ogre's charge. But he turned quick, leaping, blade digging into the creature's thigh. Up he forced himself, stabbing again and again, taking it in gut and chest and throat. It fell beneath him, sending him stumbling as it crashed to the ground. Behlen. Even as he bent to catch his breath, the thought quickened him. There was no escape from the Deep Roads but perhaps he could still see justice done. He did not hear it as it slipped behind him, its shriek piercing. Pain then, the claws taking him cross the belly, his wondering fingers touching there, blinking at the blood as he collapsed.

Theron Mahariel stared up at the canvas above him. Strange, this place, the aravel not his own. How he had come to be here, how long it had been, he could not say. But he could remember the look on Keeper Marethari's face; the sickness was unlike anything they had ever seen. And so he had slept. But soon enough they would come again and he would ask them to bear him from this place. He would tell them that he wished to die beneath the trees.

This had been a fool's errand. Struggling onto an elbow, Daylen Amnell stared into the mists. Where they had come from he could not say, what may be lurking there unseen he almost feared to. She stirred beside him, the elf, Neria Surana. Her jaw hung slack, broken, but still she held his gaze, slowly shaking her head. He had not even caught a glimpse of whatever had attacked them, but Jowan had fled quick enough. Jowan. As the mists thickened round them, he took Surana's hand.

So. It had come to this. The tunnels had seemed unending, Beraht's underlings swarming out of every crack, from beneath every stone. But Natia Brosca had cut them down. She paused now, the chamber opening bright and cool, the dwarf at its center smirking to see her there. Still there were so many, so many left between her and him. Again she took up the dance, caring nothing for the weight of them against her blades, for the sting of their blood in her eyes. But more and more they came, always more. As the gash opened behind her knee she stumbled, blinking up at that still-smiling face as Beraht drove his own blade home.

Kallian Tabris let her eyes fall shut, listening to the deep and sucking sounds of her own breath. Already it was straining, thin and wheezing. But still she could feel their hands. She had killed many humans this day, but Vaughan's guards… they had been too many, too strong… And that smiling human lord was on her now, driving deeper even as his hands closed round her throat. Dizziness now… light breaking behind her eyes… She could no longer feel his touch.

Alistair stood beside the waving reeds, staring out at the darkening swamp. Something was… wrong. Loghain had betrayed his king, left hundreds of men to die. The Grey Wardens were dead to a man and he – he! – had been the only one unfortunate enough to survive. And Duncan… Duncan had remained at the king's side, just as he had been these many months. Duncan had… Duncan had died. And yet there was something else, something that rankled still…

"This… this isn't right."

Behind him Morrigan snorted. He had not expected… when he and Jory and Daveth had met the woman in the woods that day… But she had saved him, she and her mother. He, the last Warden.

The old woman stood beside him, narrowing her eyes as she gazed across the waters. "And what will you do now?"