The marsh falls away behind Edrick as the hollow opens onto pale limestone. Wet fur, rot, and stale water hang in the air. Ahead, a narrow fissure cuts the rock face, its edges gouged by deep claws.
The Widow stands at the shelf's lip, still as a grave marker, staring into the black opening. Her hand rests near her dagger, but she does not draw it.
The Widow
There. That is where it feeds.
The Widow
I have seen that mark before, on a night I would forget if I could.
She shifts one step aside, giving Edrick a clear line to the lair mouth. The claw marks are fresh enough to shine in the damp stone.
The Widow
If you mean to end this, go in now. If it stirs, do not let it drag you back into the dark.