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Werewolf blood, cursed blood, is as red as any other, it turns out. Varaelion, Alistair, Zevran and Morrigan spill a crimson sea of it as they progress into the stone heart of the beasts’ lair. Strangely, a werewolf asks them to parley with someone they call the Lady of the Forest. Varaelion will have none of it, even if the creature does cryptically refer to things ‘he needs to know.’ What can they possibly have to say that would justify the trauma visited on his fellow Dalish?

Blades and violence earn them passage to the inner sanctum. Varaelion raises his greatsword in readiness and stares down the dozen slavering monsters that stand poised to attack. Yet they don’t attack. As one, they hunch their shoulders, inhale lungfuls of air and send forth a chilling howl that seeps into Varaelion’s soul. Dizziness blurs his vision for an instant, makes him sway.

Something moves amongst the werewolves, something small, lithe and grey-skinned. It slips forward from one pool of shadow to another until Varaelion can see. The being is a woman, or something near. Her hair is mossy green and matted. Her eyes are green, slitted with black like a cat’s. Vines snake their way up her limbs and torso like veins, mottling her silvery skin with black tendrils.

When she speaks, Varaelion and his friends listen.