Round 150 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.

I need numbers, Jeane—not reassurance. How long can you maintain that shield? Hours? Minutes? I'm in a collapsing dark corridor with a wardstone breathing on me like an eager pet, and I don't have time for vague promises about 'holding.' The floor's slick as greased ice underfoot already—water from the shower stall mixing with something else I'd rather not identify. And that thing is calling to you through the door, isn't it? I can feel it pulling at your magic like a leech on blood. The groans aren't just the building settling now; they're structural failure getting closer by the second. We need options, and I need them fast before this hallway turns into a coffin with me in it. So tell me: is this shield a marathon or a sprint?

The wardstone's pulse shifts frequency—I feel it through my teeth, each beat driving the spell deeper into my own flesh to hold against it. My breasts ache with contained magical energy, nipples hard beneath my robes, and I taste blood at the back of my throat from holding this shield so long already. The floor tilts under us as the building groans like a dying beast. Silra! I snap, voice tight. Get your ass back here now unless you want to explain to that wardstone's master why we couldn't maintain proper distance protocol! Two minutes—maybe three if we're lucky—and this whole floor goes down anyway. My concentration fractures for an instant—I need her back behind the barrier before whatever's in that dark corridor finds us exposed and bleeding on wet tile. The spell flares dangerously as my focus wavers, lactation starting involuntarily from stress and magical overstrain, warm milk soaking into my robes under my arms where no one can see yet but I feel it spreading shamefully wet against skin already slick with panic sweat.

Halie grits her teeth against the pain in her palms—blistered skin sliding on glass and wood—and throws her weight into pushing back against the door. The wardstone pulses through the frame now like a heartbeat, rhythmic and insistent. "Hera! Grab onto something!" she shouts over her shoulder, barely keeping the mirror brace from collapsing completely. Water from the broken shower stall pools underfoot, making every shift of weight treacherous. "Don't come near this door!"

She can feel the building shifting above them—timbers creaking, plaster cracking—and Jeane's voice calling out doesn't help her focus. Her burned hands scream with each second she keeps them clamped on the mirror frame. "Silra!" Halie yells toward the darkness where she last saw the elf. "Forget whatever you're doing down there! This whole floor is coming down!"

The wardstone pulse accelerates, and Halie feels it in her teeth—the rhythm becoming frantic. She adjusts her stance, trying to brace one foot against the wall while keeping both hands on the door. "Hera," she says more softly now, not taking her eyes off the gap between door and frame where pale energy leaks through, "I need you to stay back. I can't—if that wardstone touches you again..." She doesn't finish the thought. The memory of Hera's corrupted skin is too fresh. Halie's palms slip a little on the mirror glass. She needs something heavier, something more stable than this precarious barricade. But everything heavy enough to work is across the dark corridor where that wardstone pulses like a hungry heart waiting for them. She glances back at Hera crouched against the opposite wall, then forward at the leaking energy and the unstable door. Her burned hands throb with each heartbeat. "Jeane!" Halie calls out, desperation creeping into her voice despite her efforts to stay calm. "How long can you maintain that shield? We need to know what we're working against here!"

She needs a solution—something heavy, something immediate—that doesn't involve compromising her boundaries or sacrificing Hera's safety. The wardstone pulses faster now, and the building groans overhead like a dying beast. Time is running out.