At first there is no response. The house is still, but it's the sort of stillness that prickles at the back of the neck, unnatural, held too carefully to be real. Someone holding their breath in hopes the visitors will leave.

But they don't, of course, and after a twitchy minute or two there's the scrape of wood on the floor and a grunt, the sound of footsteps. The door opens a tiny crack and a lined face with an unkempt beard peers out from it.

"What do you want?" he asks, none too kindly, the words run and ground together in a thick Mire accent. He gives them a quick, squinty looking over.