Round 117 Transcript

At dark corridor in New York high rise penthouse suite, 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 collapse imminent. Someone has to answer that change now.

Hera's heart pounds in her chest as she listens to the building groan around them. The wardstone's pulses grow stronger, more insistent, like a beast stirring from slumber. Halie's breathing is ragged beside her, fear radiating off the cleric in palpable waves. "Jeane," Hera calls out, her voice trembling slightly despite her best efforts to remain composed. "What do we do? We can't just wait here for this place to come down on our heads."

The sorceress presses her lips together, considering. "I don't know yet, but we need to figure something out fast." She looks at Silra. "Any ideas?"

Silra shakes her head, frustration evident in the set of her jaw. "Nothing that doesn't involve that damn stone."

Halie shifts uncomfortably beside Hera, wincing as she does. "We can't touch it," she says firmly. "Look what it did to my hands."

Hera nods, swallowing hard. She knows they're running out of time - and options. The water from the broken shower stall laps at her ankles now, sending a shiver of unease down her spine. "We have to do something," she says, more to herself than anyone else. "We can't just sit here and wait to die."

Jeane pressed her palm flat against the door frame again, feeling the wardstone pulse beneath her skin like a second heartbeat. The structure groaned around them—a sound that was becoming less structural and more organic with each passing moment. "This isn't working," she said, pulling her hand back as if scalded. "We can't hold this position forever. The building is coming down whether we like it or not." She turned to Silra, who was braced against the opposite side of the door, face pale but eyes sharp. "How long until the next pulse? Thirty seconds? Twenty?"

The building's groan is a countdown we can't ignore. I press my ear against the door frame again, parsing the wardstone's rhythm through the stone—faster now, insistent like something waking up inside walls that should stay sleeping. Jeane's already got her palm flat against it, feeling the pulse, and I know what that hunger does to people who shouldn't be touching it. "Get your hand off," I tell her, voice sharp enough to cut through the creaking timber. "You want to feed its appetite? Use your magic to brace this damn door instead."

Hera's breathing is ragged beside me—fear radiating off her like heat—and Halie's got that desperate look people get when they're out of options and praying for a miracle. The floor's slippery underfoot from whatever leaked out during our... earlier activities, and water's flooding in from the broken shower stall now, adding to the mess. I shift my weight, grip tightening on the door frame as another groan rumbles through the walls. "We're not dying in here because we're too busy arguing about which way to feed ourselves to the wardstone," I mutter, eyes scanning the darkness beyond for any sign of an exit that wasn't there before. The next pulse comes—stronger this time—and I feel it in my teeth. "Move," I snap at Jeane. "Now." Because if we don't do something, anything, the building's going to make that decision for us whether we like it or not.