Silence, a beat, before something slips up from the shadows: A small presence at once human, where moments before there'd been only black and the scuttling of claws.

"It's not yours either, is it?" Mildly. Alan tips his head to side, brushes past a floating set of nails (suspended in the air like little silvery teeth) to draw closer. A small nod to Thingol, hello again, "There's something wrong here."

The words are dreamy, distant — but it would be a mistake to assume that's born of calm. Alan's eyes cut warily through the dim, shoulders held at tense angle.

Somewhere in the distance, a soft voice begins to sing.