Oh, fuck.

A sharp breath in. The recoil's instinctive, the glance back learned — no one over their shoulders, but,

The remains of a camp, long-abandoned. Set beneath a little overhang of rock, it wouldn’t have held many. Two or three, at most. Ragged canvas hangs in molding disarray, still spiked into bloodshot stone. Rope coils over the rotten dirt.

"Ashlock," Quietly, a pointed sort of calm. With deliberate slowness (the better he see it coming), she places a hand to his shoulder, tries to guide him a step back.

If they’re alone — a sense she can't trust, not with the noise of it in her teeth — if they’re alone, then the threat isn’t an immediate one. Were they meant to find this? Did they know? A malice she’s not willing to accord just yet,

"Your sash. Tie it over your face."

Any small precautions. They’ve time to figure out how to handle this, if they’re careful. If they really are alone.

(A familiar song, set discordant. Gaps, silences that shape the imitation of words too faint to catch; an echo down a well.)

"How far back did you feel it?"