Round 7 Transcript

The lantern's light flickers wildly as it's drawn into the dark mass, its flame dancing across the surface of the liquid entity before being extinguished. The air thickens further, making it difficult for Sister Hale to breathe without feeling like she's suffocating. As the last remnants of light are consumed, a low, ominous chuckle echoes through the gate, sending shivers down the spines of the companions.

Silra squints into the absolute darkness left by the consumed lantern. Lovely. Absolutely lovely. Her voice is dry, almost bored—except for the edge of genuine annoyance creeping in. So, we're being stalked by a sentient puddle with a taste for light and breathing conditions. Excellent. She shifts her weight carefully, feeling out the ground with her boot.

Sister Hale, if you start praying for divine illumination again, I swear to every deity I don't believe in that I'll gag you with your own habit. We need something that doesn't require faith or hope right now—we need leverage. She crouches down, pressing her palm flat against the stone near where the dark liquid is seeping. Gravehill built this city, which means every trap and trick is his design. If there's a counter-current beneath these stones, I'll find it before we suffocate or get dragged into whatever that thing is. Her fingers trace along the seam between flagstones with sharp precision—an elf seeing in shades of touch rather than light. Jeane, you still have any of those fireworks left? The ones that make noise and light up like a drunk dwarf at dawn? Because I'm about to do something involving this rusty key and what might be an old city drain cover, and I'd prefer not to get us all killed by triggering some forgotten pressure plate. She draws a slender file from her belt with her free hand. If that laugh came from inside the gate, we've got company. Gravedigger Renn wasn't just scared—he was terrified of something specific in there. And that thing laughed after it ate our light source. Which means it's probably not friendly. Her intention is clear: find a practical solution to their immediate problem before it becomes terminal.

I draw my symbol from under my cloak—the unholy iron pressing cold against my palm—and speak the words of binding, though I'm not certain what sort of entity this darkness might yield to divine authority. The air thickens further as I chant, and I can feel a resistance, like trying to push through mud, but I persist because doing nothing is worse. Come forth by the power vested in me! Reveal your form and purpose! My voice cuts through the dark with surprising strength—I am not without courage despite my weariness—and there's a moment where it feels as though something pushes back against the invocation. The darkness pulses, and I swear I hear laughter again, closer this time. My attempt to command the darkness results in a brief flicker at its edge—a ripple like oil on water—as if the entity recognizes the authority but chooses not to yield entirely. Instead of dissipating or taking form as commanded, it simply... observes more closely now, circling us with slow currents that reveal glimpses of movement within the shadow. The lantern's light is gone, and we're blind in this unnatural dark, but I can feel its attention upon us like a physical weight.