There's a familiar face from around the stacks, Alva. Though Grace seems a little different here; she's dressed herself in clothing from the Tommy Bahama, the colors bright and tropical. There, on her wrist, a strange ribbon connects her to her harpoon; a different one, purple in color, is tied in a bow around her left wrist.

The Naiad slams the tip of her harpoon against the floor, a naked effort to command attention, and stares in a mixture of wonder and contempt.

One more change, from the Manor: she 'speaks', her voice rising into Alva's consciousness without quite crossing his ears, like bubbles up from a great depth. ~You. Hermit, hunter of the living...~ A mute snarl, sharp teeth bared. ~Welcome to your new chains.~