Round 118 Transcript

As Silra's warning echoes through the corridor, Jeane hastily moves away from the wardstone, her eyes fixed on Hera, who's still struggling to catch her breath. The cleric's face is etched with fear, and her body language conveys a growing sense of desperation. With a burst of adrenaline, Jeane rushes to Halie's side, helping her brace herself against the dresser. The makeshift barricade creaks ominously, but it holds for the moment. As they stabilize the barricade, the sound of the building's groaning intensifies, and the wardstone's pulse grows stronger. Suddenly, a section of the wall near the door gives way, sending a cascade of water rushing down the corridor. The group is now knee-deep in water, with the wardstone's energy coursing through their bodies like an electric shock. The water's chill seeps into their bones, heightening their sense of urgency. Immediate pressure: How will they survive this treacherous deluge and keep the wardstone's hunger at bay?

The building groaned around us like an ancient beast waking from slumber. Each pulse of the wardstone felt less like stone and more like something breathing beneath our feet. I pulled my hand back quickly—contact with it made my skin crawl, a sensation that went beyond mere disgust into something primal. "Stop counting on me to hold this back," I hissed at Silra. "The ward's answering us now. It knows we're here." My demon nature flared beneath the surface, a cold fire that wanted to answer that call with its own power. But using magic here felt like pouring gasoline on a fire—we needed control, not chaos. Hera was hyperventilating again, her fear palpable even through the darkness and the groans of failing structure. I turned to her sharply. "Breathe," I commanded, my voice leaving no room for argument. "You're not helping anyone by panicking."

I pressed my back against the opposite wall, trying to put distance between myself and the wardstone while still maintaining a view of everyone. The corridor had become treacherous—water from the broken shower mixed with spilled lubricant created an impossible surface. One wrong step could send us all tumbling into whatever waited beyond that door. "We need options," I said coldly, addressing Silra directly. "Your mechanical mind is our best asset right now. Think. Is there anything in here we can use to brace this door better? Something heavy enough to hold against whatever's coming through?"

My eyes flicked to the wardstone again—it pulsed faster now, a rhythm that felt less like stone and more like heartbeat. Time was running out. We couldn't stay here forever, but opening that door meant facing whatever lay beyond it. "Because if you can't find something," I continued, my voice dropping to a dangerous tone, "then we need to decide whether opening the door is our best option or not."

The building is talking now—groaning timber and grinding stone—and I don't like its vocabulary one bit. Every pulse from that wardstone feels like fingers tapping on a coffin lid: impatient, hungry, awake. Jeane's already halfway to a panic spiral, which means she'll start throwing spells at the problem before thinking it through. That door leads into darkness we can't see past—could be salvation or death trap. Floor's slick as hell from Halie's little mishap with the shower stall, and I swear every time that wardstone pulses, the whole damn structure settles a bit more. So here's what we're not doing: I'm not letting Jeane get her hands on that stone. Not when she's got desperation eyes and magic fingers twitching like they want to tear something apart.

I need to get Hera away from this door before the whole building comes down on us all, and I don't care what anyone else thinks—we're not feeding whatever's in there any more than we already have.