When Abathur arrives at the source of the screaming, he is not the only observer. A human woman is also there, small for her kind, wearing ill-fitted, indifferently pale-colored clothing that drapes over her like a dust cover. Her peach-tinted hair and skin have the same peculiar pale quality as her clothing, as if she has been painted in all one dilute watercolor. This is except for the dried splash of green Vileblood around the gash torn in the fabric of her left sleeve, the rent showing through it no sign of a wound that could have produced it, and certainly not in these lavish quantities.

She watches the insects work through a tangled veil of her own unbound hair. Her right fingers twitch at the same instant that the screaming stops, the bound figure slumping into unconsciousness from the inexplicable plummeting of its heart rate and blood pressure.

She glances up at the massive insectoid creature beside her with an emotion far too dulled to be curiosity, and she waits to see what it might do.