Round 4 Transcript

The stone slab above the pit shudders, its weight shifting as the hidden latch releases. A low groan echoes through the ash‑laden air as the slab begins to slide down, its jagged edges scraping the stone floor and sending a spray of hot steam toward the party. The ground trembles beneath their feet, and a thin line of molten slag curls up from the pit’s edge, threatening to spill onto the rope they are holding.

Sister Hale lunges forward, her cleric's robes swirling, and grabs at Gravedigger Renn with one hand while snatching the rope with the other. "Don't you dare fall in! Hold fast!" Her voice cuts through the grinding stone like a whip. She braces herself against the ash-slick ground, feeling the heat radiating from the molten rock as it pools ominously near the rope's anchor point. The steam scalds her face, but she doesn't flinch. "Silra! Jeane! Get back—this trap is waking up something worse!" She pulls Renn closer to shield him with her body. Her unholy symbol feels heavy in her hand as she prays for strength, not salvation. The ground beneath them shifts again, and the rope begins to smolder where the molten rock touches it.

Jeane steps in front of her companions without hesitation. The molten rock creeping toward their rope is no trivial threat—it's a message, crude but clear: this city does not yield easily.

"Sister Hale," she says, voice sharp as polished iron, "stand back. Let me handle this." She draws power with a gesture, her fingers tracing an intricate sigil that glows faintly red in the gloom. The heat from the pit is intense now, and Jeane feels sweat bead on her skin beneath her robes—she's exhausted, yes, but she's not done yet. She focuses her will into the rising line of molten rock, attempting to manipulate its flow—to divert it away from their rope with a subtle application of arcane force. It's a delicate spell, requiring precision more than raw power, and in her tired state, her control is less sure than usual.

The stone's groan is bad enough. Now molten rock? Silra shoves Gravedigger Renn away from the edge with her boot, hard. You're useless—get back and stay out of this. She crouches low by the pit’s edge, tracing the seam she found earlier with her dagger tip while the steam burns her eyes. The heat is wrong, too hot for mere steam. Jeane stepping forward is a calculated move. Power show. Silra knows it—every spell has a cost and this one could be wasted. I've got this before you waste arcane fuel on bravado. She slides her dagger under the latch mechanism she found earlier and pries, muscles straining. The stone groans louder as the pressure shifts. With a harsh grating sound, the slab jerks to a stop just inches from slicing the rope clean through. She stands up slowly, wiping ash from her hands. There. Problem solved. Her voice is flat, dismissive of Jeane's theatrics and Hale's fussing over Gravedigger. Now—what was he so scared of down there that he'd trigger his own grave?