He leads around the edges of the halls and rooms the hounds want them heading toward, leading them instead to... a collection of... huh. His metaphorical hackles rise, and Licyn pauses at the threshold, observing the semi-transparent peoples who wandering inside the room itself.

They all bear chains, not chained to one point, but dangling from wrists. Most of them wander without purpose, eyes unfocussed, no words spoken, but a few are aware, turning and staring at the two of them and the bone hounds, expressions turning shades of hopeful to grim.

"Whoever owns them, it's not this lot, love." Where the conversant dead begin to approach, to the clangs and clatters of their bindings.