Ripley watches them swing, a true creature of the wood if she's ever seen one. Or maybe it's just dark out, and she's too tired to consider what a real forest-dwelling creature ought to look like.

They've certainly got the eyes for it, like two tocsin bulbs in which to probe the darkness. She frowns. Takes a step back with pickaxe gripped firmly in her hand.

Is this thing going to kill me? An important question. One she's afraid she doesn't know the answer to- not yet. And isn't that the scariest thing?

Wind whistles through cracks in the trees. It exacerbates her silence as she weighs whether or not she'd like to die in this depressive wood. Whether or not she really needs a guide to herald her to safety, or if she can navigate perfectly well on her own.

"Oh, fine." The woman relents. "You'd better get down from there quick before I change my mind. And you'll be taking up the front."