In a room that was both an unbelievable shambles and utterly boring, a swashbuckler tapped his shiny boot against the dusty floor.

"Would you kindly explain your position?" Charles Silverblade asked, in response to which Nala Greyward gave no response at all. Charles sighed and adjusted his rapier and fiddled with the feather in his hat, looked around the room for anything of interest, failed to find it, and so once more set his eyes upon Nala. The dwarf was partially obscured by a pile of rubble, gazing at a stone wall—to what end Charles couldn't fathom. To his eyes it was as dull a wall as he'd ever seen, nothing remotely interesting about it. Still, if Charles had learnt anything in the limited but enjoyable time he'd spent with dwarves, it was that when they found interest in stonework you gave them as much time as they demanded.

"Even so," he muttered, before raising his voice. "Nala, I had you marked as intelligent. After all, you were savvy enough to turn down the proposal I made before the test of worth. Rather blunt about it, actually. Others would call it rudeness, I see it as solidity of character. In truth it made you more attractive, and so the offer still stands." Charles paused, waiting to see if Nala might have something to say. She didn't. "You're aware that this game has a time limit? Of course you are. In my opinion this part of the playing field is fruitless. We'd be better off searching elsewhere."

"Go, then."

"And leave you alone? I'd sooner fall upon my sword." Charles patted the hilt of said sword, then blew out a short breath. "Just what is so damned interesting about that wall?"

"It shouldn't be here."

"But clearly it is. The interest yet eludes me."

Nala looked back at Charles, who raised eyebrows and hands in a gesture of impatience, then she returned her gaze to the wall. It was limestone, carefully worked so as to appear unworked. Upon laying her hand upon it Nala found it both cool and slightly damp, but solid enough. There was no tingle of magic, nothing beyond the minute prickle that had been a constant companion throughout this instance. It was, in all regards and by any measurement, a wall, and an ordinary one at that.

And yet the fact remained, it simply should not be there. Before coming to this party Nala had put several specific questions to her new shadowtail allies and their answers (though unhelpfully whimsical and needlessly evasive) had led to her making a request. Thus it was that Nala had been afforded several minutes with a map of the mansion, accurate down to the collapsed ceiling in this very room, and yet there the discrepancy lay. It wasn't the first, either. She'd noticed doors where there should be blank walls, blank walls where there should be doors. Corridors that ended too soon, others that stretched on beyond her expectations. It could all be a trick of the shadowtails, of course. It could be their idea of a joke. It could be that their influence was less than they boasted, or it could be that the instance magic was imperfect. It could be any of these things, or all of them, or something else entirely. Nala wasn't so much interested in the 'why' of the situation, and in truth the discrepancies didn't much concern her. Standing here staring at a wall that shouldn't be was a means to an end, and that end was the examination, evaluation and potential exploitation of one Charles Silverblade, captain of Death Rattle. He'd been patient, more patient than she'd expected, and that was useful. He'd spoken with respect, more respect than she'd expected, and that too was useful. He found her attractive, and that was ... interesting, possibly useful, not immediately relevant but certainly worth noting.

Without a word Nala turned and made for the room's sole exit, brushing past Charles with a conscious closeness.

"Taking heed of my suggestion?" he said, following. "Good. We should head up, try the bedrooms on the upper floors. The basements are too obvious a target, everyone will be searching here."

"Hm."

"Was that a grunt of agreement? Surprise, perhaps? Don't underestimate me, Nala Greyward. It was no accident that my team came third-ranked in the final twelve. If it wasn't for racial favouritism we'd have been first—and so we shall be. There will come a time when you regret disregarding my offer, assuming you continue to do so."

Nala said nothing. She was noting aspects of the corridor they walked through; it appeared to match the map she'd examined perfectly.

"I wonder, you know. I wonder what it is that drives you. Simple survival? I see some of that in you. 'The survivor'. Obviously you come from a city—from the streets, the same as I did. Always looking for that fleeting opportunity, that detail nobody else notices, that cunning edge. I wouldn't go so far as to call us kindred spirits but I do recognise you, Nala."

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Nala stopped, turned to regard Charles. He stood in the centre of the corridor, softly lit by flickering lamps, head cocked to one side, expression oddly sober.

"Do you recognise me?"

As if on cue the lamps fluttered out, and darkness fell on the corridor like a cloak. Nala shivered against a prickling wind, then drew her hood over her head and faded into stealth. Even as Charles called out for her she slipped away, running into the darkness.

----------------------------------------

"What was that?" Amanda said. "What happened with the lights?"

Faint shrugged.

"Magic stuff, I guess. You talk to the vamps yet?"

"Not yet." Amanda cast her gaze across the room, finding Praetorian across the room beside a concerned James Bloodspit. The necromancer met the zombie's gaze, and a reluctant but clear message passed between them.

"You should," Faint said. "Just to like figure stuff out. They're undead masters, they know it all. Heh, and they make sure YOU know it, but nah, still good to get things straight. Maybe see if you can ditch your necro and stuff."

"Hm. Darkcede," Amanda said, as Praetorian came near, "what just happened?"

"That oddness with the lights? That fell breeze, felt though we're indoors? I have only the slightest clue." Praetorian met Faint's eyes, and bowed his head with a small smile of both introduction and apology—but his expression was grim when he returned his attention to Amanda. "One must assume that it's something to do with this instance magic ... but then again, perhaps that wouldn't be such a wise assumption to make."

Praetorian had lowered his voice as he'd talked, his eyes now upon the vampire hosts—specifically Priscilla Belldandy. The girl stood apart from the others, hands clasped together, staring up at something unseen.

"Excuse us, won't you?" Praetorian flashed a smile at Faint, then took Amanda by her cold bandaged arm. "Come along now, put those ridiculously long legs of yours to work."

For once Amanda didn't argue—and for once her body seemed to be doing as she wanted. She barely stumbled as she and Praetorian walked towards Priscilla, her gait stiff but far from shambling.

"Miss Belldandy, you appear troubled," Praetorian said. Priscilla turned to blink at him, her face white—of course this was normal for a vampire, but she somehow seemed even paler than usual. "I must inquire, is the instance stable?"

"I'm not sure," Priscilla admitted. She glanced at Amanda, seemed about to say something to her, then instead let out a little shuddery breath. "That wind just before, it might have ... interfered. I can't quite..."

Priscilla trailed off, looking at something past Praetorian's shoulder. The necromancer spent a moment in quiet preparation, then turned to smile at Violet Blaze and Amity Moon. Both stood with their arms crossed, their expressions identical. To Praetorian they paid scant attention, little more than a glance, their displeasure clearly directed at Priscilla.

"Is there something wrong, Pris?" Violet asked.

"I hope it's all going smoothly," Amity added.

"Um," Priscilla said.

"Surely a slight ether breeze wouldn't affect things?" Violet said, her dark gaze fixed upon Priscilla. "Surely that wouldn't spoil our little game?"

"Surely," Priscilla said.

"The thing, you see, my dear little Pris, is that before we all felt that inconsequential breeze Amity was having a lovely conversation with Rae Bloomfield, who I'm sure you know. Yes? You've been introduced? But of course you have. And having made Rae's acquaintance it certainly simply cannot have escaped that adroit little cliquemancer brain of yours that she's a thaumaturge. As such she had some observations of interest about the current state of our instances. For example, she observed that they seem to have—what was that word she used, Amity darling?"

Amity looked up from her fingernails, pale eyes on an increasingly wretched Priscilla. "Collapsed," she said.

"Ah," Praetorian muttered, a flash of pain crossing his face, followed by momentary confusion that swiftly turned to something like horrified realisation. Priscilla had reacted at the same instant, gasping quietly before raising hand to mouth, her eyes wide.

"What is it now?" Violet demanded. "Priscilla, tell me this instant. What has gone wrong?"

It was Praetorian who spoke:

"Death," he said. His eyes met Priscilla's, who gave a tearful nod of accordance. "I can't ... that is to say, it's been a while..." The necromancer trailed off, chuckled nervously, then immediately frowned at himself for doing so. "It wasn't natural, a life was ended abruptly, through violence—"

"Impossible," Violet scoffed. "Simply impossible, not here, not while under our protection—"

"I am a necromancer of the Lily Valley; on the matter of death I will not be challenged." Praetorian stood slightly hunched, but he met Violet's eyes. "Show the way to the east wing and I may yet speak with the departed."

Violet's fanged teeth were bared as she hissed her response:

"You presume—"

"I make a humble request as a dedicated professional and a concerned team mate; show the way to the east wing."

"You are so very lucky that I take my responsibilities as a host seriously—"

Praetorian had stepped forward, his face set, and when he interrupted Violet it was with three granite words:

"Show the way."

"Vee," Priscilla said, before Violet could rip Praetorian's throat out. "We should. I'm not sure exactly what happened, but ... we really should let them go and see."