((I got that. Thanks, though!))
Pain. Blinding, sickening pain. This particular darkspawn was not only the strongest and most powerful Emissary she had ever dueled--he fought like an Ogre, while only being half its size--but he also held the power to ignore the pain that he himself felt. Only Perdante's berserker fury could grant her that strength, and at the exact moment that he had dislocated her shoulder, the fury had departed from her. Dissipated like air rushing out of one's lungs, like a lake-bed vanishing in the midst of a blazing desert, and like the hope of mortals who had finally realized that the Maker had abandoned His creation for all time. Hope. That was what truly left her, and not just her blind rage.
The Orlesian maiden gazed up at her foe and conqueror. "I yield," she rasped. "I've lost. You've won. Kill me!" If a darkspawn could understand and use a word such as respite correctly, he would surely be able to comprehend those few phrases. Death would come soon, and that would be the end of her at last. I'll die a warrior's death, Perdante thought, and no one in Ferelden or Orlais can call me a coward. I fought a brave fight, and I can fight no more. It's what King Aedan demanded, and I've fulfilled my duty as one of his soldiers. I...have... Total blackness overcame her. Unconsciousness was indeed a relief, but was it the unconsciousness of the grave?