Round 177

The corridor's ancient stone carvings writhe in the thickening mist, each carved face seeming to twist into a new expression of hunger or warning with every passing second. The air itself feels alive, pulsing with a dark energy that makes Abby's skin crawl and her stomach churn. Jeane's grip on her waist is firm, almost painfully tight, but it's the only solid thing in this shifting nightmare. The sorceress's voice, usually so confident and commanding, now carries an undercurrent of barely-controlled panic—a sound that sends a fresh jolt of fear through Abby's already overtaxed system.