"Ancestors," she breathed, barely more than a whisper, her hands clenching each other across the her collarbone, and that was nothing compared to — to — It happened quickly enough that all Signy could do was stare at the sword, not as it slid into the mage's chest but as it slid out, leaving a rip in the center of his robe, through which she could see blood. There were two dead bodies on the floor. The dwarven girl, already nearly pale as porcelain, went even paler; she was still staring in horror and disbelief, hands set just below her chin, when Savio took the cup and started speaking. What could she do? What could she have done? When the Antivan winked at her, her stomach lurched, and she was not sure if it was because she wanted to laugh at the flippancy and could not muster herself to it, or because she'd just become markedly more terrified. When he kept his feet, and his life, and when nobody stabbed him for talking out of line, she almost whispered a thanks to her ancestors. But it was too early to be thanking them for anything, for she was standing next to drink.
She barely even heard them say her name, but then the silver chalice that she had been staring at this entire time was in front of her. Close enough that she could smell something acrid and vile in the vapors drifting upwards towards her. Far too close for comfort. "I..." She took a breath, watching her small hands tremble around the stem of the goblet. The awful thing must have looked even larger in her grip than it did in the hands of anyone yet. It seemed like it was going to hurt. It seemed like it was going to hurt very much. At least it'd be over quickly. She hoped.
"I think I need to stop doing things like this," she finally said, although quietly.
She closed her eyes and tipped the enormous chalice back, and sipped. It felt like she barely got any down, for if it had stunk from afar it was nothing in comparison to the awful, awful taste. Almost immediately, she wanted to retch; her eyes watered; it was like using too many spells and feeling her stomach suddenly seize, as if it were turning itself inside-out. And that was before the actual pain started. It would have been more honorable, more dwarven, probably more Grey Warden-ish not to cry out. Signy, with a high-pitched gasp, just slightly too airy to be a true scream, managed none of these three things. It wasn't just her throat or her stomach, but her head now, that was pounding, and her eyes, her chest and her lungs and everything, burning and rending sharper and more immediate than the lyrium had been, although not as hot or as long-lasting as it had been before, when even her veins had screamed from what change they underwent. There was a riot of sound and what felt like movement all around her, vertigo and pain, and Signy hadn't even the slightest idea that she'd lost her footing or hit the floor, or that she had wobbled briefly, and then her legs had crumpled out from under her like the limbs of a child's cotton doll.
She did, however, notice the brief fit of coughing that overcame her, as the pain started to fade.
At least this time she'd stayed awake. "It's over?" was what she tried to say; what came out was half coughing.