The sounds of tired breathing and footsteps burst from thin air in the manner of ghosts. But she sounded rather more solid as she sat against her wall and dared to hail him.

In another hallway, Psii emerged from his camouflage, scattering more bones. His permanent but useless fire--the one that marked him as someone with passive powers--scattered its light around a corner he'd felt a million times with his hands. He wasn't bumping into this angle of wall like most of the others, no way.

"A giant purple horrorterror with four eyeth and ten wathte thphincterth," he answered sardonically. "Flatulenthe ith a bitch."

He was a tall, gray wight-looking thing, monk's robes covered in dead human rags. A week's diet of bats had left him dull and pallid, but he was a troll, hardy and honestly used to being starved. His once colorful sclerae were now as pitch as the blindness that plagued him. He carried a long femur in his clawed hand, but kept it lowered.

"The Ψiioniic, yellowblood, follower of the Signless. Thee, even if I told you who wath there, it wouldn't matter to you. I don't know you, we're thtrangerth. It'th a thtupid quethtion. What you really want to know ith, will I kill you?"