Fenris makes the better choice, considering Cazador’s allies within Baldur’s Gate. To cut a different path might risk altering the watchful eyes of the city itself, even here, on the fringe edge of things, where only the dead nest contently.

The estate is quiet. Gone utterly dark. Candle wicks burned out, the stench of blood a sickly blanket over air that was already stale to begin with. This place was never fit for the living.

And in that coffin, Cazador remains— Fenris’ departure only briefly interrupted by scattered collections of rats. Bats. Carrion creatures. Festering irritations compared to what Fenris has already overcome. If it feels akin to the last, useless thrashes of a dying beast yet committed to survival, that is because it is.