Iseldra maintains a position at the indecisive middle of the group, wanting to push ahead and see whatever is ahead but also apprehensive about hidden dangers. She steps carefully from stone to sunken stone, her nose wrinkled at the general muckiness of the fen. Kersik follows at her heels, to her side so as to not be in anyone's way, halfway between an amble and a trot. His paws are splattered with various marsh liquids that are probably best left unexamined.

Iseldra's breathing is shallow. She stands on that edge between fearless excitement at the mystery of it all - mists in the marsh! Dubious disappearances! A chance at glory! - and outright fear at the danger of the unseen things the Lightbringers hunt. It's a thrill, and it keeps her looking ahead.

"That's not funny," she tells Aelthas. "You know, Rashemen is cold and full of slush and if the snow's melted it gets sort of muddy, but at least it's not like that all the time." After a few moments of misty-eyed consideration, she adds, "Well, every legend has a grain of truth, right?"