He heard the flap of leather wings in the stagnant air, then the spatter of blood on the walls just before the edge of the torch's light reflected in a pair of red eyes at the end of the hall.

Sorn kept very still. He knew beasts and spirits, but this one was unfamiliar. This was something corporeal and old and deadly. The bat, he knew, was gone.

With a tight grip on the torch, its fire rippling like a flag between them, Sorn steadied his glare upon the strange woman's face, and he did not look away when she pointed to the mushrooms. One cannot take one's eyes away from the unknown. He did not offer his torch.

[color=6ecff6]"Are you the spirit of this place?"[/color] he asked in a low voice -- and then, with the aid of a deep slit in the center of his tongue, he spoke with an impossible sound that pulled at the eardrums in almost an opposite to her reverberation. It was the language of the spirits. The fire grew and glowed brighter, expanding its warmth and light to better illuminate the stranger. She still seemed real. But how could she be? Who else could have found this place, let alone entered it at the same time?

A slow smile grew around his sharp teeth. [color=6ecff6]"What makes you think it's a trap?"[/color] Surely she wouldn't walk into it and save him the time and effort of finding a sacrifice. [color=6ecff6]"A trap implies there's something to protect."[/color]