Tantervale is Where the Weird Shit Happens

            It had been a long night, and the sun was near to rising when the Grey Warden and her party, of which Merdain supposed she was now a part, had rounded up all but the most stubborn citizens, and returned to the bridge, where Nemain waited with a newly found host of men and women.

            Merdain walked to Nemain through the small throng of dark shapes. She saw a look in Nemain’s eyes she had never seen before.

            “Koira?” She said the name as a question. “Who are these people?”

            She wondered whether people was at all the right word to use for the mass of dark shapes, looking so ethereal and otherworldly in the dim moonlight. She peered closely at the nearest one, then snapped her head back with a start as she made out the dim outline of smooth, handsome features.

            “Hello,” she said with bright enthusiasm but with surprise etched into her girlish features.

Nemain opened her pack, laying out her armor, onyx and silver and garnet. 

She could feel them moving now, could feel the writhing of the horde, could feel everything gathering. 

How strange, to feel for the first time the two gods in accord, to think that there could be anything that would turn their focus outward, that could set them pushing at her until every sinew and vein in her burned with holy fire was startling. 

She closed her eyes, steadying her shaking hands. 

The beginning to the beginning, the end to then end, if only one knew what the end was. If only one could pick out the thread of memory that would lead back to the beginning. 

If only one could compelle Iriyll to tell the truth. 

She felt it now, the incantation and the breath, memories stitched back into the world, every thread afire. 

So many voices, a choir singing life and death. 

It would take all of her focus and will to keep them from manifesting completely and giving the corrupted a chance to retreat. 

She panted, back arched, hands clasped together, sweating as Iriyll, Narjoska, Sakalas and Beiral were made visible, ashen smudges in the night. 

Sakalas pressed his palm gently against her back as Iriyll paced in short strides. 

She was the swordswoman and the sword now, wrought by the will of the gods, pressing down hard with her own soul, bringing them to heel.