In silent fury, Hallen creeps along behind Alphonse with a banana-knife clenched tightly in her fist.<br/><br/>To climb the side of this low bridge, Tak finds it difficult to keep pace, but is able to stay alongside up with the careful walk of the others.  Of course, Tak must know that the strange being did see him approach, and he can feel her awareness of him-- maybe not that she can see him, but that she knows he is, at least, near, as if in his primal mind he can sense a beast sniffing for him, trying to seek him out in the dark.<br/><br/>The water beneath him radiates a tepid warmth, and the mist that clings to the water's surface parts and rolls with their passage.  Still, the water smells clean, almost sweet, like a fine fresh spring.  They can see that the beckoning woman-- or beast, or spirit-- has no irises in her eyes, instead staring at them with black, glossy eyes like polished obsidian.  Her hair-- uneven, but heavy layers of jet-black tendrils, moves softly in the breeze as if stirred by some other place's wind.  Her skin is glistening with a diamond-dust sheen, every contour and shadow of her form proportioned in an image of health and natural beauty.  The smokey trail of her pubic hair points up like a widow's peak at her concave navel, and they can see, now closer, that her toes as well as her fingers are tipped with the ivory claws that consume, rather than mark, her fingertips.  She wears no makeup, shows no sign of tattooing or of jewelry.  Her smile is coy, perhaps even mocking as she regards each in turn.<br/><br/>"Fear not," she says in a cacophany of voices at once-- an old woman's dry whisper with a child's tender alto, a sobbing mourner atop a comforting mother.  Her words are in a foreign tongue-- something akin to the native elven, a relative of Fiera's old family's language-- but in that echo of voices she speaks, each of them can hear other languages repeating the same phrases-- Smoulderland Goblin, Hadrusan common, Smoulderland Halfling-- but Fiera notes that her ancestor's language is not among the dialects spoken.<br/><br/>"My magic will not harm you here," the chorus of interpreters echoes.  "I see you have come, you poor old woman, to thank me with blades for my gift to you."  She tilts her freakishly beautiful face at Hallen, pantomiming a thrust dagger to her own heart.  "You humans show your respect so well."<br/><br/>Hallen curses and winces at the woman's words, seeming to struggle with an innate fear that pervades her.  "Gift?! You stole my husband you bitch..."<br/><br/>The woman of the freshwater lifts her hands to her breasts in an expression of self-comfort, mimicking as if the accusation wounds her deeply.  Hallen continues.  "You ruined my life, and your... your magic killed my family--"  her eyes run with hot tears, and her open hand clenches and relaxes again and again as she fights her fear with anger.<br/><br/>"I did no such thing," the voices reply.  "Your husband returned to your cold bed each night."   She smirks with cold condescention.  "Your son, too, returned home safe every time..."  at this Hallen goes pale and her mouth hangs open.  The black-eyed woman continues.  "You did not know, I see.  He was far more promising than the man of gray beard... but you are young and beautiful now, are you not?  You will see again what I mean... perhaps you will choose your life better this time, so you don't die old and gray on a stinking swamp farm."<br/><br/>Hallen blinks in confusion, and the ivory woman continues.  "And, truth be told, was it not<i>you</i>that fed your family to the beasts?"<br/><br/>With a blood curdling scream, Hallen charges at the woman, her knife held overhand in a clumsy rush to open her naked belly.  Hallen then emits a shrill screech as she's lifted into the air-- she disappears into the sky for a moment before the others realize she is suspended-- flailing and dangling-- two hundred meters over their heads.<br/><br/>Seeming unperturbed, the woman has merely extended one long-taloned hand and gestured up-- every visible tendon in her arm and shoulder is tense, as if she holds a great weight, but her attention is fixed on Fiera, Quinta, and Alphonse.  Though it is impossible to tell which way her eyes turn, she cocks her head in the direction of where Tak scales the side of the rock-bridge.  "We are talking."  Hallen's cries are like a bird as she hangs, suspended in the air, terrified but apparently unharmed.<br/><br/>((Everybody: roll a will save.  DC10 to remain coherent against an aura of fear.  Failing leaves you at -1 to all.  Pass and you're okay.  Lore checks, perception checks, whatever you like are welcome at any time))