Round 82

Silra's teal eyes lock onto Jeane across the narrow shaft, her voice cutting through the oppressive atmosphere with barely contained urgency: "We need to move. Now." The elf woman's slim frame tenses visibly as another section of wall begins to shift, living stone groaning in protest. Her silver-blonde hair catches a flicker of ambient light, highlighting the dark veins that crawl across her exposed skin like shadowy vines. She raises one hand—palm toward Jeane in the universal signal for "stop"—and mouths two words clearly: "Mine." And then: "Fuck." The thick air between them pulses with corruption that's already begun its insidious work, and Silra knows exactly how much time she has before her entire nervous system collapses.