Erevain settles down near to Alalla, eyes fixed on the corners of this great hall. He keeps his sword on his lap, one hand on the hilt, the other hand tracing circles on Alalla's back.
This place... everyone can feel a shroud covering it, a smothering unease that grows heavier by the by the moment. Alalla, in particular, can feel that her orc blood is not welcome here. She feels that if she were a full-blooded orc, this ordeal would be much, much worse.
But then, a quarter of an hour into their rest, the floor begins to bleed. Not blood, perhaps, but a sticky, black goo eases up between the floor tiles. Before the party's eyes, dark and twisted shapes begin to form in the congealed liquid. Small, wretched bodies, their only discernible features are wide lamprey-like mouths that glisten moistly in the firelight. Their hisses sound as bubbling squirts as they chew at the air.
Erevain stands weakly, not yet recovered from the previously fights. "I do not think we should linger here."