Round 182 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.

The wardstone pulses again—building groans like a dying beast, pressure shifting from waiting to immediate risk. I hold the barrier together through sheer will channeled into that fucking dildo, my demonic reserves screaming for release even as I maintain composure. Hera's panic is radiating through the group like a disease; her fear threatens to destabilize everyone else entirely. I snap at Halie: "Focus on your task, Cleric—keep that door braced or we all die here." Then to Silra, voice tight with controlled urgency: "Find us out of this death trap in the next thirty seconds or I'm kicking the door down regardless of what's on the other side. And Hera," turning to meet her wide-eyed terror directly, "compose yourself or find somewhere quiet to hyperventilate alone."

I push through the broken floorboards again, hands finding solid timber beneath the rot. The wardstone pulses once more—each beat feels like nails scraping my teeth—and I snap at Jeane before she can start another countdown: "Twenty seconds isn't enough time to find a path through collapsing construction when half our party's hyperventilating and the other half is channeling demonic energy into sex toys."

The building groans like it's exhaling its last breath. Water from the busted shower stall laps at my boots, carrying with it the scent of metal and something older, something wrong that makes my skin prickle. The floor tilts again under Hera's weight—she's lighter on her feet than I am—and I see Jeane gritting her teeth as she holds the barrier together. I don't have an immediate answer. No secret passage appears in the wallpaper. No convenient ladder drops from the ceiling. Just darkness beyond that door and the knowledge that whatever's waiting out there, it probably wants us just as much as the wardstone does.

Halie grips the mirror tighter despite her burned hands screaming protest—I can feel the wardstone pulsing through the doorframe now like some monstrous heartbeat. Each throb makes my skin crawl and Hera whimper beside me. Her panic is a tangible thing, radiating out from where she braces the frame with her shoulder. Jeane's got her back to us, channeling energy into that dildo like it's the only thing keeping hell at bay while she snaps orders at everyone—focus, stabilize, shut up—but I know what she really means: don't let Hera fall apart or we're all fucked. The building groans around us like a dying beast, and through it all, Silra's trying to feel her way through the floorboards for solid timber. Thirty seconds. That's how long Jeane gave before we're kicking this door down whether there's something waiting on the other side or not. And given what I felt in that hallway earlier—whatever touched me through the water—I'm not sure what's worse: facing whatever's beyond, or letting that wardstone energy seep any further into our space. My hands are slipping on the mirror's smooth surface; the floor's slick with spilled lube and rising water from wherever the shower burst. The barricade we built is holding for now—barely—but every time the building shifts, Hera whimpers and presses back against me like she can't decide whether to push or pull away. I lean in close to her ear, voice low enough that only she'll hear over Jeane's orders and Silra's muffled curses from below. "Hold steady," I say, though it comes out more pleading than commanding. My burned hands are weakening my grip, but I can't let go—can't show weakness when everyone's looking to me for stability. I meet Jeane's eyes over Hera's shoulder; she nods once, sharp and decisive. She gets it: we need to move or the wardstone will consume us piece by piece while we wait for a miracle. "Silra," I call out, voice barely controlled panic, "we're running out of time. What do you see down there?"

The silence stretches too long before she answers, voice strained with effort. "There's... something solid under the floorboards. But it's not stable—everything's shifting."

Jeane curses under her breath, channeling energy into another pulse that makes the door shudder in its frame. Hera gasps beside me, pressing back harder. I glance at Jeane, then to where Abby crouches uselessly against the wall—I can't keep pretending she's not a liability right now—and make my decision. "Fine," I say, stepping forward even as my burned hands protest. "If Silra can't find us out in thirty seconds, we're kicking this door down and taking our chances with whatever's on the other side."