When the group finally arrived at the entrance of the Elven vault, all but their guide was completely oblivious to the fact that was actually where they had ended up.
Edwin had simply been leading them down one of the many corridors, and stopped in front of a slightly decayed wooden door that looked no different than any of the others.
Figg had even walked through the door, expecting that Edwin was just wanting them to go first, and was confused when he stepped on the trigger for a most deadly trap.
He sputtered, slapping away the broom handle that had smacked him in the face when he stood on it, and looked around in confusion.
It was a servants chamber, the Elven equivalent of a janitors closet. There were buckets, mops and brooms. A few jars whose contents had long withered or faded away, and a small stool in the corner that was most likely used to relax when you were having one of your twenty smoke breaks of the day.
