Alistair's grip on Zevran's shoulder tightens, then releases. He needs his shield. There's still a distance to cross, but it makes him feel better. "It's..."

It's standing in front of the rift. It has pincers and at least eight legs.

"It's all right."

It's not all right.

"We just need to get it away from the rift long enough for everyone--" That's optimistic. "--to slip through."

"Is that all," Hawke pipes up, but she has her staff ready.