Giles silently informs his illusion to cast a spell of sacred flame onto any witch or hag that becomes visible as he is looking up, a readied action.  He whispers to Soren, "I hear you, Soren, I'm going to try something, perhaps another path, from outside!"  He says to himself, "I've heard rumors of such things...they are rather witchy... maybe...."  He stands astride the broom, thinking to himself and willing to the broom, "Fly!"  If it somehow is what he thinks it might be, he has additional movement he will perform...

The wolves on the second floor report back to Soren:

Tourmaline, still side-eyeing the barrel, drags the cart and book outside the front door and sets it all on fire.  Toads croak and leap from their fiery doom.

Nearby, Giles commands the broom to carry him off into the skies... the broom does nothing.  [Giles, you can't ready an action outside of combat.  Also, the duplicate uses your senses to cast spells, so if Giles is outside he may not be able to see the duplicate's target.]

Some of the wolves filter inside to prepare to move up inside the windmill.

Zefla:

Zefla moves like a shadow, each step up the staircase careful and measured.  The aged wooden boards are silent beneath her steps.  The laughter from above has ceased, replaced by an eerie quiet.

As she reaches the top, she presses herself low, peering just over the edge of the floorboards into the chamber beyond.  The air here is damp with mildew, the scent of rotting wood mingling with something sickly sweet, like spoiled sugar.  The vaulted ceiling looms above, shrouded in gloom, and in the center of the room, the broken gear shaft rises, its splintered edges like jagged teeth.

Her eyes sweep over the scene.  A crumbling wooden closet stands against one wall, and stacked inside it are three crates, each about the size of a dog's cage. The top one is empty, but the others... movement.  A pair of tiny, pale hands grip the bars of one of the doors.  There’s someone inside each.

Her stomach tightens as she shifts her gaze to the moldy bed with its tattered canopy.  Sitting there, in a posture far too casual for the horror of the scene, is Morgantha.

Zefla’s breath catches.  She knows this woman.  The crone’s wiry gray hair is pulled back loosely, but the dim light catches the sickly hue of her aged skin.  Her gnarled fingers work through the brunette locks of the young girl sitting obediently in front of her, Saskia.  The girl’s face is blank, her eyes distant—entranced, lost in a daze as Morgantha drags a brittle old brush through her hair.

For a moment, neither of them notice Zefla.  The rogue keeps perfectly still, her pulse pounding in her ears.  But then—a pause.

Morgantha tilts her head, the motion slow and unnatural, like a bird listening for prey beneath the snow.  Her lips curl at the corners in amusement.  Then, ever so deliberately, she turns her head and meets Zefla’s gaze directly.  A rotted-toothed grin splits her face.

“Oh, my dear,” she coos, her voice dripping with honey.  “There’s no need to skulk about.  Why don’t you come up and sit?”

Saskia does not react. She just sits there, still as a doll.

Morgantha pats the bed beside her.

“It’s time we had a little talk about Barovia, don’t you think?”  Her tone is so warm, so inviting—but something cold and ancient writhes beneath it.  Then she chuckles, tilting her head slightly.  “If you and your friends behave... well, we can all get what we want today.  Doesn’t that sound nice?”

(Noted, thanks DM)

Giles is disappointed that the broom doesn’t take flight, so he steps off it and walks inside, near his Fake Father Giles, walking over to the brick oven and searches for any other items, looking for kindling to light this place on fire after the children are found.   “I hope they are okay up there, see anything?” he says out loud, looking around for anything else of note in the room.  He continues to watch upward for any signal or sign of hostilities.  

He turns to Soren and says “I can follow up as well, but it may get tight up there, I can stay here until you call for my help..”

Zefla freezes.  How...how did this witch spot her?  She knows she was being extremely quiet and she shouldn't.. no matter.  As she stays on the stairs, crouched against them with every nerve ending on edge, she starts communicating with her friends.  

To Giles, Soren and Burr, she almost screams in their heads:

She ever so slowly stands up and continues her trek to the floor, but stopping at the top of the stairs, never taking her eyes from Morgantha.  Moving to the side so that her back is against the wall, "What do you mean, we can all get what we want?  What have you done to Saskia... and the rest of the orphans?"

Morgantha watches Zefla with quiet amusement, her gnarled fingers continuing their slow, deliberate strokes through Saskia’s golden hair.

Brush. Brush.

The sound is soft, rhythmic—almost soothing, if not for the vacant look in the child’s eyes.

At Zefla’s question, the old crone sighs as though deeply wounded, shaking her head.  “Oh, my dear, I fear you misunderstand me.”  Her lips curl into a knowing smile, her rotten teeth peeking through.  “What have I done to Saskia?  Why, I’ve done what no one else would.  I have cared for her.  I have fed her.  I have given her comfort and safety in a world that has abandoned her.  And now, in this moment, I have sent her mind to a quiet place where it won't be disturbed by any words we share.” 

She gently tucks a loose strand of Saskia’s hair behind her ear, never breaking eye contact with Zefla.  The child does not react.

“As for the rest of the little ones...” Morgantha gestures lazily toward the crates.  “What future do you imagine awaits them out there?  Hmm?  Do you truly believe you are rescuing them?  That you can save them from Barovia itself?”  She shakes her head with clinical finality.  "You can't."

Outside, windmill blades groan as they turn.  Then Morgantha chuckles, a dry, brittle sound.

“You are not the first strangers to be drawn to this land," She muses.  "Blades have been drawn and bold speeches full of righteous fury have echoed up and down the valley.”  Her voice is light, almost teasing.  “But none of them understand - until it is too late to matter.  This land devours heroes.  Strahd devours them all.”

She leans forward slightly, her voice dipping lower.

“You see, I think we may have more in common than you realize.  You fear him, don’t you?  Perhaps you've already come to hate him.  You want to see him fall.”  She tilts her head, eyes glittering.  “And that, little mouse, is where you and I may yet find an accord.”

She spreads her hands, as if in offering.

“My sisters and I have spent long years avoiding his notice.  But now, in no small part thanks to you, we are no longer hidden.  Strahd has cast his eye upon us, just as he has cast it upon you.”

The false warmth in her tone fades, replaced by something sharper and colder.

“That is... unacceptable to me.  I am old... older than you can imagine, little one.  But Strahd's attentions could well spell my end.”

Another pause.  Brush. Brush.

“But perhaps,” she muses, “we can be friends, rather than foes.  You take the girl, Saskia.  I release her into your care, unharmed."  As if on cue, Saskia stands abruptly.  She takes a half-step toward Zefla - but then Morgantha lightly grabs her wrist.  "In return, you and your friends walk away and leave us to our business.”

"And in the days and nights to come, we can work with one another.  You've made friends with the ravens... a good start.  But we have eyes and ears in places where crows dare not fly.  Even within the shadowed halls of the Dark Lord's own castle.  We can make his secrets known to you... and when the time comes, if you can find a way to kill him... we can help."

She lets the silence linger before adding, her grin widening, “Or... you can fight us.  Waste your strength, possibly die.  My sisters and I will escape, even if you overpower us.  And then where will you be?  Right where you are now... trapped, with no way out."

"Whether we come to a deal, or come to blows... Either way, my dear, I will enjoy what comes next.”

She leans back, running a clawed hand slowly down Saskia's arm.

“Well?” Morgantha purrs.  “Shall we be reasonable?”

[It has been 30 seconds since you breached the windmill.]

Zefla stands frozen listening to the hags words.  Her eyes stare at Morgantha but do wander to Saskia at times, she can't help herself.  What has the woman done to her?  Some of Morgantha's words make sense, other than these children, what fight do they have with the hags?  Wasn't their fight with Strahd?  To get them out of this cursed place and to help release Ireena from his grasp?  

As she tries to make sense of everything, her head spins and she feels her breathing quicken as realizes she is afraid.  What's to stop this woman from doing what she is doing to Saskia to her?  She is sure she couldn't stop her if Morgantha wanted a halfling as a puppet instead.  

She takes a moment to try and gather her thoughts, finding her eyes focusing on the witches clawed hand running down Saskia's arm.  "Ok.  Where are your sisters?  And all the children leave, not just Saskia.  And you keep away from them, whatever life they have in Barovia is better than here."  She finds herself staring at the crates with the tiny hands holding the bars and a chill runs down her spine.

She rips her eyes away from them and back to Morgantha.  Taking a deep breath, "Why...why have you given my friends such nightmares?  What you have done to them... it is terrible, and what does it give you?  There must be a reason you have to terrorize people as you do, what is it?  Just for fun?"  She finds she is balling her fists as she recalls how her friends were after the nightmares they experienced.  She wills her fingers to relax.

"Do you know how we can get through the mist?  How we can get home?"  She feels sweat starting to run down her temple as she continues to try and talk to her, she presses her back against the wall, making sure it is still there, "Have you made a deal with heroes before?"  she's almost afraid to hear the answer to that, but at the same time, she did just say we have opened Strahd's eyes to them now, so maybe they haven't had need in the past?  Either way, this whole discussion is making her skin crawl, but she knows they need help to try and defeat Strahd.

Morgantha’s grin widens ever so slightly as she watches Zefla struggle with the weight of her own thoughts. She tilts her head, taking her time before responding, savoring the tension in the air.

“My sisters?” she echoes, letting her fingers dance absently along Saskia's arm.  “Oh, they are near, little one.  Always near.”  Her milky eyes flicker toward the trapdoor in the ceiling, just for an instant, before settling back on Zefla.  “But what does it matter?  If we are to speak as friends, their location is irrelevant.  And if you mean me harm, then their location is best kept my secret.”

She shifts on the bed, brushing one clawed finger lazily along Saskia’s cheek.  The girl does not react, staring off at a corner of the room.

“As for the children…” Morgantha clicks her tongue, shaking her head.  “You ask much.  All of them?  Just like that?  Why, you wound me!  Do you know the care it took to gather them?  Perhaps you do.  That nasty nun in the orphanarium did not wish to part with them...” Her voice is rich with mockery.  “And you would have me cast them away, just so you can feel better about yourselves?”

She sighs theatrically, then waves a dismissive hand.  “But… I am reasonable.  A trade, perhaps?  Something of equal worth.”

Morgantha lets the offer linger before continuing, her tone shifting to something softer, conspiratorial.

“You see, dearie… you have something I want.”  She leans forward slightly. “Not an object, no.  But your hands, your feet, your curiosity.  Your Courage.  You and your little band of heroes—so eager to challenge Barovia, to make the world bend to your will.”  She lets out a small, dry chuckle.  “I admire that.”

Her eyes gleam.  “You want all the children?  Fine.  Then I want a favor in return.  Nothing so dramatic as a soul—oh no, no, no.  That would be crass.  But a task.  A small, simple thing.”

Morgantha strokes Saskia’s hair once more before clasping her hands together.  “There is an item.  A… keepsake, shall we say.  An old relic that Strahd keeps hidden away.  I have long coveted it, but alas… the Devil does not like to share.”  She sighs, shaking her head.  “But you… oh, you are already such troublemakers, aren’t you?  Stirring things up, drawing his gaze.  Drawing his interest.  Perhaps you will find an audience with him.  Perhaps, one of you could slip away to his study.  Perhaps you could retrieve it for me.  A book.  A singular book.”

Her grin turns wolfish. “Do this, and I will part with the children.  Every last one.”  She holds up a bony finger.  "Just as soon as I have the book.  Until then, you take only this one [Saskia].  The other children remain here - safe and sound - until you return with my prize."

She lets the words hang between them, letting Zefla think before she speaks again, shifting to address the halfling’s other questions.

“The nightmares?” She shrugs lightly.  “I am what I am, little one.  Just as you are what you are.  I do not call it terror.  I call it… insight.  Your friends should be thanking me.  I merely show them what already lurks in the dark corners of their hearts.  And doesn't it get the heart beating?  The blood churning in the chambers and bellows of your little circulatory systems?  I daresay, you're never more alive than when you're screaming.”  Morgantha’s smile never falters, but there is a glint of something crueler behind her eyes now.  "Of course, should we come to terms, the nightmares shall cease."  She holds up a hand as if swearing an oath.

“As for the mists?” She chuckles, shaking her head.  “Oh, my dear, sweet thing.  Everyone seeks the way through.  You will not be the first to ask me, nor the last.  And I do know many things. Many, many things.”  She leans forward again, her voice a whisper, full of poison and promises.  “But listen to the truth, and know it as you hear it.  Were the key to the mists in my possession, I would have left this place ages ago.  This is a dull, soul-crushing place.  And that leaves so little room for someone like me to maneuver.  We are forced to eke out a miserable existence on the margins here.  And no... I've never had a reason to offer a bargain like this before.”

She sits back once more, folding her hands in her lap, watching Zefla with something like amusement.  "See?  I could have lied to you just there.  Promised a safe and easy escape, only to lead you into ruin.  This is real, honest discourse between us.  It feels a little... gross, to be so forthright but its productive, isn't it?  I have a good feeling about our relationship."

“But first… you must decide, little mouse.”  She gestures to the crates, to the frightened children inside.  “Who are you?  And who do you need to be to survive?  A hero would fight me.  A practical woman would take the deal.”

Her smile stretches wider, impossibly so.

“Which are you?”

[It has been 42 seconds since entering the windmill.]

What in Silvanus' name is happening up there?  Has Morgantha placed some vile enchantment on Zefla too?  We were going to attack without reserve!

Soren hears the voices on the upper level, though he cannot make out the words.  He recognizes the tone of a city-folk conversation when he hears one.  Deals, manipulation, prevarication.  Threats, subtle and unsubtle.  His hackles rise and the wolves growl low in their throats.  The remaining wolves ascend to join Burr and Ireena, space permitting, the beasts on the razor's edge of charging up to attack Morgantha (certainly doing so if Burr and Ireena do).

The druid's voice carries through the windmill, ragged and on the bleeding edge of another emotion.  Frustration?  Betrayal?

"I can see the hags use the windmill to grind bones, likely human, splinters of which now litter the floor, true to the name Bonegrinder.  The red-brown stains may be old human blood on the millstone, or iron deposited from the bones, it makes no matter.  I am starting to wonder what the pastries are really made from.  They take cubs from their pastry-addicted parents and will continue to do so.  WHY ARE WE STILL TALKING WITH THEM?"

"We oppose the evil that Strahd does or allows to occur, yes, but we do not ally with fiends to do it!  We fought the abomination on Yester Hill and the madmen who sought to bring it forth.  We battled Izek.  We will fight the one who sent the Vampire Spawn to Vallaki.  All regardless of whether these are Strahd's direct doing!  We came here to slay these evil night hags, and yes, perhaps die, or fail when they vanish again, but NOT to put ourselves at the mercy of their wiles and malice!  You cannot trust a fiend's words!  WILL NOT ONE OF YOU WARRIORS UP THERE FIND YOUR COURAGE AND ACT?"

Time is ticking, my illusion will end soon…. Giles thinks to himself, looking up as Soren calls above.  Amen to that, something should be happening by now…

Giles holds onto the broom, walking around the ground floor, he hugs the wall near the door, leaving his simulacrum in the middle of the room, but seeing no target, he cannot cast a spell.  He calls up as well.  “Zefla, Burr, have you found the children?  Let’s get them out of here!”

Burr is almost vibrating with eagerness to drive the Bloodspear into the witches evil hearts.....but he trusts in Zefla.....he can't hear the conversation above particularly well but it seems calm for the moment.....

Zefla stands there wrestling with herself as she listens to the madwoman talk.  She also listens to her friends as they start to shout from down below, she knows her time is short.

To Giles:

 To Burr:

"What did you do to that nun?  Her face will haunt my dreams for many moons to come.  How many children do you have?  Because yes, I want all the children.  This book you seek, this old relic, I am sure there are many in his study, what do I look for?"  She finds connecting herself to her friends as she tries to talk to the hag steadies her some.  "And they all will remain safe and sound until we return?"

She waits to hear her response in this, attempting to use her insight to see how truthful she is being, after boasting about how she was telling the truth to Zefla, no matter how gross it made her feel.

Insight:  4 - not good 

"Nightmares shall cease, good."  her face scrunches up a bit as she considers but is also responding to Soren.

To Soren:

 She finds she is breathing harder again, the fury inside of her building.  Honestly, she isn't sure what to do.  Make a deal and possibly not follow through?  Try and fight?  They were many more strong than before, but she still had this needling feeling that to defeat Strahd... they were going to need help, even if it was help they didn't truly want.

"A deal could be good.  But I don't think all of us would agree to one."

As Soren shouts from below, Morgantha's eyes widen slightly.  She silently mouths 'Yikes' to Zefla, and rolls her eyes.

Morgantha clicks her tongue in mock regret, shaking her head slowly.  "Ahh, the headmistress.  Such a shame."  Her tone is almost wistful, as though speaking of an unfortunate accident.  "But we had to be quick, mouse.  No time for kind words or soft hands.  She stood in our way, and we couldn’t have that.  So we showed her the truth."

Her grin stretches wider, a glint of cruel amusement in her eyes. "It was not we who killed her, you know.  Not really.  It was her own mind that did it."  She twirls a gnarled finger beside her temple.  "Such an unfortunate thing, the way fear can crush a soul."  A shrug, a careless wave of her hand.  "But a necessary thing.  The work must be done, and sometimes that work has a… cost."  Her gaze lingers on Zefla, watching for any flicker of reaction.

Morgantha folds her hands over Saskia’s shoulders, her clawed fingers resting lightly against the girl’s skin.  On the children, Morgantha gestures lazily toward the crates, tiny hands still visible through the bars.  "Three, dearie," she says smoothly. "Saskia here, Emil and little Marta.  You can see them all right here, can’t you?"  She tilts her head, watching Zefla with a knowing look.  "I wouldn’t insult you by lying about something so plain to see."

"Saskia can leave with you, now... these other two will remain here.  They are so fond of me, you know?"  She spreads her hands wide, innocently.  "No harm shall come to them until you return... provided you honor our bargain.  Try to cheat me, though...".  She doesn't finish the thought, instead drumming her fingers lightly up and down Saskia's arms.  The little girl continues to stare off into a distant corner.

She lets the words settle before moving on.

"As for the book… Oh, you’ll know it when you see it.  Bound in fine black leather, old, but unstained by time.  It might look at home beside encyclopeodiae and scholarly texts.  A relic of a bygone age, filled with secrets."  Her lips curl into a sly grin. "He will keep it close... perhaps on a shelf near his desk.  Not to read it, though!  But because he dare not let it leave!  And that, dearie, is what makes it so very interesting to us."  She thinks a moment.  "It is said to be more than the contents of its covers... thin in appearance, but hundreds, perhaps thousands of pages, once opened.  It should be very obvious, should you come across it.  Very obvious indeed."  She smiles again, that wide - almost impossibly wide - smile.

Morgantha notices Zefla’s shifting expressions, the odd little scrunches of her nose and flickers of concentration.  She narrows her eyes slightly, curiosity piqued.  "Something troubling you, dear?"  Her voice is light, but there’s an edge beneath it, a probing undertone.  "You make the funniest little faces when you think.  One might suspect you’re up to something."  She leans in just a fraction.  "Why don’t you tell old Morgantha what’s on your mind?"

Then, addressing Zefla’s concerns about the deal itself, she nods slowly.

"A deal could be good, yes.  But you think your friends wouldn’t all agree to it.  And that is a problem, isn’t it?"  She drums her long fingers once more against Saskia’s arm, considering.  "But problems have solutions, dearie.  You seem to have an open mind—perhaps you can convince them?  Or, if not, perhaps we work something else out."

She gives a toothy smile.

"Tell me, mousie.  What is it your friends need to hear?  What would make them listen to you and I?"

Down the stairs, Ireena strains with sword in hand, trying to listen to the conversation above.  Slowly, the floor around them fills with more and more wolves, shoulders bristling with primal rage.  She looks at Burr.  "What do we do?" she whispers.

Further down, on the ground floor, Tourmaline pokes her head in at the sound of Soren's shouts.  She looks about to say something, but then chokes it back.  Her eyes dart about the shadowed interior, as if she expects danger to leap out.  Then she steps back out just outside the door, near her bonfire.

Victor stands near the oven, looking miserable.  "I wish we would just get on with it.  This is... I don't like waiting like this..." he mutters.

As if on cue, Father Giles' not-Giles doppelganger flickers and disappears.  Likewise, the mirroring effect surrounding Giles fades away as well. 

The last of the wolves crowd their way up the stairs toward the second floor.

[It has been a full minute since breaching the windmill...]

Burr moved two steps up and stopped, " I don't know....wait for a signal..."

Bramble the spectral, skeletal spirit bear also winks out on the second floor.  Soren closes his eyes, pain building at his temples.  He takes a deep breath.

"Not courage then which you are failing to grasp now, Zefla.  Nor heart."  The druid's voice is calmer now.  Melancholy.  Still carrying to the upper floors.

"No it is... wisdom I would have you reach for, my friend.  Do you remember what I said before we reached the tower and after the hags' curse?  You seemed to agree.  We already knew then that there were three of them, and how deadly they were.  This is what I said, and it still holds true:

'...it seems likely they will use the captured cubs as hostages and human shields. I say that we cannot hesitate or negotiate as city-folk sometimes do, no matter the danger to the little ones. Attack all out. If we let the hags survive, many more cubs will die...'

So what has changed since then?  Nothing.  We must do as we came to do.  Mortals cannot bargain with fiends and expect to find anything but ruin.  They lie with abandon, and any truth they tell is laced with malice, turning to ashes in your mouth when you rely on it.  Our enemy, Strahd may be, so I do not say this lightly, but if the alternative is defeating him and raising Morgantha instead as a dark queen of this cursed land, then I choose Strahd."

Slowly, Acacia, the pack alpha of the wolves, pads upstairs on her own to join Zefla, leaving room for others.  Her eyes glowing like molten embers gaze steadily at the hag.  On the floor below, the others, lean forward straining, waiting for the slightest provocation or signal to attack.

Morgantha’s smile doesn't fade, but it does shift—something colder, more knowing.  She tilts her head, listening to Soren’s words echoing up the stairs, and when he finishes, she lets out a long, slow sigh, shaking her head in disappointment.

"Ah, the wise and righteous druid," she murmurs.  "So certain, so sure, so very inflexible in his words.  But tell me, mousie," she leans slightly closer to Zefla, voice dropping to something almost conspiratorial, "when did he start calling the children ‘cubs’?  When did it become necessary to dehumanize them?  When did they stop being little ones to be saved, and become a battlefield calculation - just unavoidable collateral damage?"

She lets that thought hang for a moment before continuing.

"He speaks of wisdom, but he clings to a single path, unyielding.  I have seen what Barovia does to a soul... your druid friend is driven by desperation, not wisdom.  In his desperation, he reaches out for clarity, for black-and-white, for a line to draw.  A place to take a stand against darkness and cry 'No farther!'  This is about holding his fraying self together, not about the rest of you, these children, or your escape from this land.  Yes, perhaps if you strike us down, we will not be here to take another child tomorrow.  Perhaps.  But what of Saskia?  And these others, today?  If you charge in, blades flashing and spells flying, what happens to them?  Do you think we will just let you take them?"  Her long fingers tap lightly against Saskia’s shoulder, thoughtful, absentminded.

"One of you will misstep.  One of you will strike too soon or too late.  And then there will be blood, dearie.  Maybe one of you.  Maybe one of them."  She watches Zefla’s face carefully, weighing every flicker of doubt or defiance.

"And if by some luck you do strike us down—" Morgantha’s grin widens, teeth glinting in the dim light—"where does that leave you with Strahd?  Any closer to defeating him?  Do you think the land will rejoice at your victory?  Or will you have traded one horror for another, burned yourselves hollow chasing your friend's righteous fury, only to find yourselves just another set of wandering ghosts in the end?"  She chuckles.  "Or maybe you can endear yourselves to the Dark Lord, hmmn?  Chase out these squatting hags... deliver his bride to him?  Maybe the Count in his high castle will reward you and set you free?"  She just lets that thought linger and continues to smile at Zefla, like one might smile at babbling toddler.

Then, at last, she turns her gaze to the wolf.  Morgantha's black eyes glitter with amusement as she meets the beast’s molten stare.

"Oh, and what’s this?  A little mutt, sent up to frighten me?  Or to intimidate you into following orders?" she asks, glancing at Zefla.  Her voice drips with false admiration. "Will you be the one to decide, spirit?  Will you take the choice from the little mousie and end this talk with your fangs?"  Her grin hardens, just slightly.  "You could try, spirit.  But I do so hate to be rushed."

Her hand tightens, just a fraction, on Saskia’s shoulder—not a squeeze, not a threat, but a reminder.

"Your friend thinks you a fool, Zefla.  He fears you lack courage, lack heart, lack wisdom."  Her voice is softer now, coaxing.  "But he hasn't taken the choice out of your hands just yet."

Giles notes his false images disappear and he becomes alarmed, he starts to walk up the steps, still holding onto the broom.  As he walks up, he starts to call up to Zefla, saying “Everything okay up there?  Zefla, you remember why we are here, right?  Don’t get fooled or second guess yourself, remember why we came… Burr, you okay?”  He doesn’t say anything further, but takes a few steps up so that he can at least try and see what is happening….

Giles, the second floor of the tower is almost completely stuffed with wolves, all pacing in agitation and peering at the staircase up to the third floor.  There, Burr and Ireena wait, halfway up the steps, weapons drawn.  Zefla, it seems, is higher up in the windmill.

Burr took another step up the staircase and stopped....

“Zefla!  Can you tell us what is happening, come to the stairs?  Does she have you pinned, entranced?  I can’t reach you, but we will rush up there and make mincemeat of the old hag if you don’t tell us what is going on…”. Giles steps back down on the ground floor, looking up as far as he can see to see if he can spot Zefla or the hag.