In the end, Meranax, who needed less light than them, closed her mouth, her genuine frustration abated. She looked down to watch them flee, being sure to shout in fury and thrash amidst her ill-gotten treasures if any of them dared look back, roaring in the darkness again and again until, at long last, she was sure they had escaped. When she was done, she slumped, releasing a long held breath of exhaustion and waving her claw. Magic engulfed it, proper magic, not the perversion she had sold her freedom for so long ago. The subtle illusion shifted around the cavern, revealing the many entrances and exits she had made for herself over the years. It also revealed the iron peytral she wore, worn with age, but unlike so many of the treasures that now lay strewn about her, clearly loved and cared for, without a spot of rust after so many years, nor magical degradation after so many spells cast to keep the metal from falling apart after numerous repairs.