Somewhere in the back of her mind, Mav was dimly aware that she was dying. She had been surprised and stabbed from behind just as another wave of enemies crashed into Siyona's forces, firmly distracting any available healers. The pain in her back had long since faded, but she thought she could still hear echoes of ringing steel, or the occasional hiss as a shadow died. She even recognized Siyona's voice, as distant as it was, still trying to organize everyone after the unexpected attack. Even through the roaring in her ears, she could hear the mages talking as they dragged injured fighters back into the tavern and the labored breathing of those still fighting viciously to protect what had become home for all of them. She could even hear the roll of sweat down the soldiers' faces, the shuffling of booted feet in the dirt.

But for all of her unexplained perception, the sounds eventually faded, leaving the woman alone in blackness. She couldn't feel the ground beneath her any longer; the blood wasn't trickling down her back anymore, and the various aches and pains of battle had faded. In fact, she couldn't feel anything at all--not even the beating of her heart, or the life in her veins. Even so, a feeling of serenity descended upon her, banishing what was left of her worry and exhaustion. The warrior suddenly found herself feeling as though she were home, though she could not draw up a clear picture of where "home" was. The tall, lush trees of Harlingston meshed together with the plains and mists of the Wyrd, somehow overlapping in her mind.

Her bewilderment did not last long, however. Before she knew what was happening, she was standing upright once more as the ambiguous, "floating" feeling vanished--though she was still in blackness deeper than any she had ever imagined. Slowly, Mavra became aware of another's presence. She wasn't alone--there was someone standing in front of her, but more concerning, there was the familiar, icy touch of steel on her skin, right at the hollow of her throat. Someone had her at blade point. Her hands itched to grab for her weapons, but she could not feel their comforting weight on her hip. The daggers normally hidden at her wrists and boots were gone, as well--she was unarmed, and unarmored. There was no longer the weight of chainmail on her shoulders. For that matter, she was not aware of any sort of clothing. Great. So she was naked and being threatened.

"You shall be judged."

The voice was cold and final, raising goosebumps along her flesh. Mav's eyes snapped open suddenly--when had she closed them?--to behold a young-looking woman standing before her, holding that cursed sword. She was tall and willowy, with tangles of black hair cascading down to her narrow waist. A loose, silken dress clung to her lean form, a few touches of silver glimmering at her throat and earlobes. No, not silver... Frost. Bits of frost collected on her where a woman would normally wear jewelry. Her breath was misting in front of her with each exhale, but Mav wasn't even chilled. A glance at the sword held to her neck confirmed the warrior's suspicions--the pommel was comprised of a black onyx gem embedded in the gaping jaws of a skull. Skeletal digits flared out to form the guard, and the blade itself, much like the woman's "jewelry," appeared to be made of frost.

This was Kaliah, her homeland's patron deity of death. And Mav had been sent to her for judgement. So she really was dead, then.... That was the only reason she would be standing here, feeling the icy press of "Kaliah's Blade" (a common oath in Harlingston) against her skin. The warrior spoke without thinking, as she often did, somewhat embarrassed to hear that she sounded as astounded as she felt.

"You know, I never did believe in you...."

She pursed her lips, however, realizing that it was probably not the best of ideas to inform the goddess of death that she had doubted her being. She was faintly relieved when Kaliah did not immediately destroy her soul--that was the legend, wasn't it? Souls that were deemed evil or otherwise unworthy were not allowed an afterlife, or another attempt at existence? It was something like that. But no, the goddess did not thrust her blade of frost through Mavra's heart, as she expected. In fact, Mav could have sworn she saw the corners of Kaliah's lips twitch slightly, as though she wanted to smile. But instead, the divinity spoke again, a glimmer of amusement in her eyes.

"Of course not. You hardly even believed in your lord's patron deity. Rest assured, Mavra Nari, warrior of Harlingston and the Wyrd, you shall be judged." The redhead tensed, automatically trying to lean away, but she found herself immobile. Oh, that just wasn't fair. That was it, then. This woman would determine how the rest of Mav's eternity was spent, based on her actions in life.

She was screwed.

But again, that faint half-smile graced Kaliah's lips, and she regarded Mav almost curiously.

"...But it seems that will have to wait. You have some very dedicated, or perhaps just stubborn, friends, Mavra," she continued, those black--or were they blue?--eyes alight with something Mav couldn't quite identify. The warrior paused, glancing down at Kaliah's sword uncertainly.

"...I'm sorry, what?" This time she could have sworn the other woman grinned, lowering the point of her sword.

"We shall meet again."

And with that, she brushed a surprisingly warm hand over Mav's forehead, and the woman lurched back into detached darkness once again.

She was only out for a few moments this time before she began to recognize familiar voices surrounding her, and felt a far gentler--if somewhat more desperate--hand on her forehead.

"You can't do this, Mav. Robalt would kill me. Come on."

Siyona? Certainly she wasn't dead, as well... Was she? But no, she could hear people moving around nearby, pouring water for exhausted soldiers. The pain hit her again all of a sudden, and her resulting gasp--the first breath she had taken in over a minute--sent cramps of pain lancing through her lungs. It probably all would have been refreshing, if she didn't suddenly feel so tired. Her eyes fluttered open, taking in Siyona's worried expression, and and the serious set to Cyrus's shoulders. There was a collected exhale of relief around her as she groaned and rolled over, the woman losing track of just how many people were touching her; they gripped her shoulder, or touched her side, or lay a hand on her leg, all just reassuring themselves that she was, in fact, alive. Not that Mavra was clear-headed enough to understand any of this, of course. All she knew was that Bint was sweeping her into her lap, tears on the elf's face, and that somewhere, in the back of her mind, she still felt that distant awareness of "home."