He stops, and it takes Jo a few seconds, wrinkled brow about to ask a question about what he's doing before the answer comes, and if there's a tally she's supposed to be keeping, her inability to hear anything adds something like super hearing. But there's a sour edge to it; petulant and annoyed at her, and then him, and then herself, again, for it.

But she can't hear anything, and something is still better than nothing.

Jo takes the torch afforded to her, trying not to think about it being weird, and wafts the light play from the flames in the right direction, looking down at the spikes, that, on closer examination, look like swear tips almost more than spikes. She reached out a foot and nudged the closest one to her, saying, "Mmm, spiky death. Just what I've always dreamed of."

The moment the tip of her boot touches the closest spike, the ground violently shudders, and the spike-speartips up and down the whole section suddenly shoot up several more inches in every direction they were pointing.