They're dreaming. Don't--

'What do you mean, they--hrrk!' The meaty thud of a leather-armored body slumping lifelessly to the newly-reddened earth.

The spirit of the lifewalker looked askance upon the spirit of the bloodwalker as she hovered near her slain corpse, luminescent eyes wide and shocked. How the--?!

--hush. Hush... The black ghost pointed a translucent hand behind the bloodwalker, and she spun in slow-motion and--

--and recoiled, violently, the ethereal edges of her poorly-shaped 'body' flaring out in a bright explosion of sudden emotion. The gargantuan ghost of a wolf that glowed more brightly than the watery sun above turned its gaping muzzle towards the two dead Panthera.

What had been a beautiful ebony feline in life lifted a blurry shadow of a hand to stop the white wolf's burning gaze. I told you to hush, he whispered without words or voice, and he shook as the huge astral predator took one wind-whipping step forward. Run.

The bloodwalker looked at her body in dismay. The corpse was revivable, if only the lifewalker could re-fasten her chain to her physical form... but she looked up again and quivered at the might of the colossal lupine as it took another step forward. Without solid paws to touch the meta-soil, she spun and raced away.

Her vision shortened as she made distance on her fallen body, and soon, she was blind, seeing only an impenetrable bank of mist-grey fog that shifted uneasily around her. She fumbled to keep her own spirit formed in the likeness of her image, hazy edges drifting and melding with the river of raw spirit as she staggered through it.

...Windsinger...

She turned at her name that she didn't quite hear and was suddenly met with a shadowy face so close to her own intangible nose that she could see it past the fog. She didn't recoil.

Windsinger, come with me. Back to your body now. You need to walk again.

The bloodwalker followed the lifewalker to her corpse, the trip achingly slow and increasingly disorienting. By the time she was close enough to her chilled body to see a vague echo of the physical world again, she was nothing more than a colorless mist with no shape.

The lifewalker reached out a hand of shadow and balled a fist where her chest should be, had her spirit any more strength. Then, the robed ghost knelt, and clenched his other hand within her corpse's chest. Of a sudden, there was a brilliant scarlet line between heart and heart, and Windsinger found herself inexorably drawn back.

She opened her eyes to see the sky, then bit her lip hard enough to draw blood, swallowing the shrill scream that rose like bile in her throat. The agony of her unhealed wounds flooded her, immobilizing her body and enveloping her mind until--

--and then there was a cool touch on a fevered brow, and she thought the faintest of shadows passed over her eyes as the pain lifted and departed. Windsinger looked down at herself in her tattered armor and saw naught but black scars reminding her where gaping wounds once bled crimson onto her white fur. With a deep, shaky breath, the bloodwalker rose to her paws once more.

The Avan campsite was deserted, the 'dreamers' having departed swiftly after slaughtering her. She coughed dryly, wishing there was blood pooled in her lungs to soften the raspy hack, and wiped her muzzle on the back of one bracer. 'Father,' she swore softly, lifting a scarred palm to press against her closed eyes for a moment.

Next time, came the unheard, wordless, voiceless message into her mind, don't wake the dreamers.

Windsinger sighed. 'Why am I not a spiritwalker again, Heartsapper?' she asked the ghost of the lifewalker aloud.

Because we need you to be a warrior, cub. Pick up your sword and shield.

The bloodwalker opened her eyes and, half-numb from dying, swept up her weapons and began walking again. The dark shadow never left her shoulder.