One thing is clear: the elf O’Keefe was here. He and one of his female accomplices—not Shaver, Whistle. This tells her that O’Keefe played a part in bringing her here, as if she didn’t already know. The thought brings a discontented rumbling into her breath. She would like to drag her claws through O’Keefe’s face, down through his chest and belly, and keep tearing at him till only shredded meat remains. She would like to make him die very slowly. Slowly and with much pain.