By the time Miaren has descended the rope with Draque following closely, Fern has squirmed out of the grasp of the Thing.  The only part of it still gripping her is its maddening stench, still opening cankers on reasoning and sweet blooms in the nose, and the echo of its bruising strength.<br/><br/>Miaren reaches Fern as the slighter woman pulls her feet from the vast hand.  Around them, the meadow grass is a velvetine pallet, the ground comfortably lush with life.  Flies avoid them as spicy and sweet fragrances waft from the trees.<br/><br/>Then the slightest rustle in the trees is heard in the distance - a noise of something or someone sleek and swift approaching.