Rejoined by their wayward elves, the party finds themselves at the bottom of an increasingly tempestuous wind tunnel. The hurricane above you shows no sign of abating, and in the few moments it takes to gather your faculties the grappling hook is finally wrenched from its moorings. The metal barb scatters along the walls, the rope attached to it trailing like the tail of a demented kite, and more than one member of the party has to duck to keep from being stabbed by the flying claw before it collides in a sickening crunch with the pile of bones on the floor. Thus incentivised, the party makes a quick withdrawal, their steps hounded by the relentless wind until emerging into the daylight. It is a short walk back to the relative safety of the manor, but far slower now with two injured comrades to manage.