Round 35 Transcript

At Penthouse suite in a New York high rise, the pressure shifts from waiting to immediate risk. The ward answers the party's presence with a fresh pulse through the stone and no one can mistake it for safety. The nearest sign of danger is now structural instability from wardstone interaction. Someone has to answer that change now.

I don't trust this. A sybian altar? That's your solution—the most obvious, desperate thing I can think of? This isn't some cheap theater performance we're putting on for the building's pleasure. The wardstone wants intent—real, genuine fucking intent between us. And you want to solve it with furniture arrangement and a vibrator? Silra, if this goes wrong, the entire floor comes down. We'll be buried under concrete and steel before we can scream. You're talking about staging some kind of... ritualistic orgy? On command? Because a stone tells us to? I'm not your plaything. And I'm certainly not going to risk everyone's life because you have some twisted idea of what this thing wants. I felt it too—the pulse getting stronger. We don't have time for half-measures, Silra. If we're doing this, we do it right. But I want to understand exactly what 'genuine intent' means here before we start tearing furniture apart and creating makeshift shrines to whatever dark power's possessing this building. And Hera—put that thing down. We're not children playing with a toy because someone told us to. If you insist on this course, at least have the courtesy to explain what you think it entails, beyond just 'being intimate.' Because from where I'm standing, that's not a solution—that's a recipe for disaster.

The building's groan isn't settling anymore. It's straining. I move toward the center of the room without thinking about it, my eyes on Jeane. 'Silra might be right—this thing wants more than just a show.' The wardstone at Hera's neck pulses in time with my heartbeat now. 'But that sybian altar idea... we can't force something genuine if it isn't there.'

I look from Silra to Jeane, then back to the pulsing stone. 'If we do this wrong, I don't know what will happen to us—or the building.'

Hera stands frozen, the sybian clutched tight against her chest. Her eyes dart from Jeane's stern face to the wardstone glowing ominously at her neck. The building groans again, more insistently this time, and Hera flinches. "Wait," she says, her voice shaking only slightly. "Maybe Silra is right. Maybe we need to give this thing something real."

She takes a step forward, towards Jeane and the makeshift altar. Her heart pounds in her ears, but she forces herself to meet Jeane's eyes. "Come on, Jeane," Hera says, trying for boldness but hearing the uncertainty creep into her voice. "We need all of us for this to work. Silra, Halie, all of us."

She extends a hand to Jeane, the sybian still pressed against her other arm. She takes a deep breath, trying to steady herself. "Join us," Hera says, more firmly this time. "Let's give the wardstone what it wants."

I look at Hera holding the sybian, then at Jeane across from me. The wardstone pulses again, harder this time—something like hunger, but wrong, impatient. I can feel it in my teeth. "Genuine intent," I repeat slowly, testing the words. "What does that even mean in this context? We're not trying to write love poetry here."

Jeane's looking at me like she wants to argue points or throw spells, and neither of those seems helpful right now. The building groans again, louder—wood straining, metal complaining—and I glance up at the ceiling. It's holding for now but won't forever if we just stand here discussing philosophical bullshit. "We don't have time for a therapy session," I say to no one in particular. "If this thing wants substance, let's give it something concrete before the whole fucking floor collapses."