Ever since the party was stalked and attacked by the troglodytes, Perriket has been lost in a distant haze. The pain of the shaman’s lightning-ball was so fierce, and his terror during the clash so bone-deep, that some part of him simply failed, ceased functioning, became numb; and for all the uncertain time afterward he has been no use to dwarf or gnome, padding and scenting mechanically as if he were somehow drifting alongside himself, observing himself from a vantage point both within and without his mortal form.

Now, finally, the superficial reassurance of snug tunnels, warm bodies in familiar proximity, and the promise of fresh hot food have all helped massage his badly-frayed nerves. Now, at least for the moment, he is able to breathe a touch more freely, and even dream wistfully of Nadjhet’s trim and delicate whiskers.

But the press of so many gnome and dwarven bodies, and the scent of their underlying fear, has begun to weigh on him, even in this place of precarious safety. Ordinarily he would long for the freedom and the quiet thrill of a quick, fluid scurry in the open air; but after the troglodytes, the whirling bats, and that distant glimpse of lumbering horrors, Perriket is caught between an urgent desire to escape the press of refugees, and a growing terror of what else might be lying in wait—either just across the next hill, or terrifyingly close by.