"We likely are."

By mannequins, ghosts, by the child, by locals as they enter this old building. He pauses in the entrance hall, gazing around at their options: side rooms, a stairway up, a hallway deeper into the ground floor.

"I have Karsa's wards," Wrathion offers, "although perhaps you might have something in your own --"

He cuts off, frowns as a butter knife shoots towards him and bounces off the wall beside him.

"... Toolkit," he finishes. Well, he did expect some resistance after all. It seems they will have it.