There is a full ten seconds of silence, before he adds, “they never did.” He then begins to elaborate upon what else they did and didn't have. The list was elaborate, and traumatizing. The end result, boneless, toothless, eyeless, with long rubbery limbs and gray flesh. What we had mistaken for braids on the women had been long, blackened tongues. Tongues, he said, that we had grown rather accustomed to during the night there. We start freaking out about halfway through that last bit.
I smash the one we're talking to's face in with a morningstar. The sorcerer turns around and lights the little gang of “women” that had been following us on fire. Some of them, covered in ragged cloaks of human skin attack, some begin flailing about like lunatics, screeching and cackling and talking backwards. Instead of attacking, they would rub up against us, shuddering and slivering and boneless, moving into our way when we tried to flee, and taking our blows like they were nothing, until we had hewn them to bits.
It was sick, and unnerving, and it didn't make any sense, but we fucking killed them all. We fucking killed them all. Every single one of them, we cleared that village out one goddamn building at a time, killing their lipless horrors and the little sharp-toothed ones that gnawed at our ankles and jumped out of dark corners, and the ones that grabbed our legs, and the ones that would throw themselves at us while others flanked around or ran off, to ambush us later. We killed them all, and ended the threat.