Round 9 Transcript

The gas stung my eyes like fire, and I cursed under my breath—not the kind prayer Hale might mumble, but the kind of words that make the dead wish they'd stayed that way. "Jeane," I called out, voice sharp despite the ash coating my throat, "that display of power is going to draw every city guard within a mile. We don't need you waving your unholy symbol like it's a beacon—the only thing we're signaling right now is our location to whatever's making that noise below, and probably to Gravehill's finest as well."

My fingers moved instinctively along the wall, tracing the grooves left by old city engineers who'd long since turned to dust. I found what I was looking for—a narrow side passage, barely visible in the gloom, leading away from the gas and the sound. "Move your asses," I ordered, not waiting for agreement. "Unless you want to breathe this shit until we pass out or the guards find us." The air in that new tunnel was cleaner, though it smelled of something else—old stone and decaying matter, the kind of smell that tells you things have been dying down here for centuries. I pulled my unholy symbol from its hiding place—a gift from a patron whose name I'd forgotten the moment his coin purse grew light—and pressed it against the wall where the gas vent had opened. With quick, precise movements, I began scratching symbols around it, creating a simple alarm ward that would tingle if anything approached from that direction again. "At least this way we know if our friendly neighborhood gas company decides on another surprise release," I muttered, more to myself than to the others. The thrumming sound below had stopped, replaced by a scratching noise—like claws on stone—that sent a cold finger down my spine even as I worked.