Round 97

The stormy sky above pulsed with ominous energy as Silra and Sister Hale burst through the inn's door, slamming it shut behind them to envelop themselves in a warm, musty smell. The air inside was thick with the scent of wood smoke and roasting meats, a comforting respite from the chaos outside. A fire crackled in the hearth, casting flickering shadows on the walls as patrons, mostly travelers and locals, glanced at the pair with a mix of curiosity and suspicion.

One burly man near the fire raised an eyebrow, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, while Gravedigger Renn's lifeless form lay motionless nearby. The runes' pulse had faded, replaced by an eerie silence broken only by the distant rumble of collapsing structures. Silra's voice cut through the tension as she grasped Sister Hale's arm, her eyes fixed on the inn's sign creaking in the wind. "The plates weren't designed to collapse—they were built to release whatever's been waiting beneath Gravehill," she said, her words laced with conviction.

Sister Hale nodded, her silver holy symbol clutched tightly in her hand as she surveyed the common room. The patrons' attempts to seem uninterested only seemed more forced in the face of their unease. "Something ancient is pushing its way into our world right outside these walls," she said, her voice low and urgent. "We need to move—find a back room or cellar where we can think without an... unwanted audience."

The fire crackled on, casting shadows that seemed to writhe in the flickering light as the pair exchanged a weighted glance. The stormy sky above seemed to darken further, its leaden clouds like a physical manifestation of their collective unease. The ground beneath Gravehill groaned and shifted, whatever they released still ascending, pushing up through the earth like some ancient lever being thrown.