Round 98

As they burst through the inn's door, slamming it shut behind them to envelop themselves in a warm, musty smell, Silra and Sister Hale stood frozen for a moment, their eyes fixed on the creaking sign above the entrance. The stormy sky pulsed with ominous energy outside, but within the inn's walls, the air was thick with the scent of wood smoke and roasting meats, a comforting respite from the chaos above.

Sister Hale's voice cut through the tension as she grasped Silra's arm, her silver holy symbol clutched tightly in her hand. "Whatever is buried down there... it wasn't mindless," she said, her words laced with a sense of desperation. The burly man by the fire raised an eyebrow, his hand still resting on the hilt of his sword, as patrons glanced at the pair with a mix of curiosity and suspicion.

Silra's teal eyes scanned the room, her voice low enough for Sister Hale's ears alone. "Whatever is buried down there—it wasn't some mindless horror waiting under Gravehill since before time began," she said, her conviction clear. The runes' pulse had faded, replaced by an eerie silence broken only by the distant rumble of collapsing structures.

Gravedigger Renn's lifeless form lay motionless nearby, a grim reminder of their encounter with whatever was buried beneath Gravehill. Sister Hale nodded, her eyes locked onto Silra's. "I understand now—the plates weren't designed to fail; they were built to release whatever was buried down there." The ground groaned beneath her feet, and she felt that wrongness bleeding up through the earth, a hunger for terror-smell surging like a dark tide.

As the storm raged on outside, Silra's gaze met Sister Hale's, their eyes locked in a silent understanding. They had escaped the tunnel entrance, leaving behind the ruins of the pressure plate system, but the question remained: what now?