Round 6 Transcript

The guard’s blade still glints in the storm‑lit sky as he steps forward, sword drawn, eyes narrowed on Silra. A low, resonant thrum rises from the ash‑slick road beneath their feet, growing louder as the ground shudders and a narrow fissure cracks open beside them, dripping black, viscous liquid into the wet ash.

The fissure opening in the road is a clear escalation—the ground shudders again, more violently this time. I don't flinch; instead, I complete my motion, pulling out my unholy symbol with one hand while the other draws arcane sigils in the air. We're not dealing with mere bandits now, sir guard, I say, voice carrying over the rising thrum of whatever's beneath us. This is a wake-up call from something deeper. The sigils flare crimson as I complete the ward—a circle fifteen feet wide centered on Silra and me—and ground it through my symbol. It holds for now, a shimmering barrier against the slick black fluid oozing closer. Sister Hale—get back! Renn, if you're worth your coin, you'll run tell the magistrate that we've found something in the old city streets that needs his authority, not our blood. My eyes never leave the guard, but I address him through the ward. You can sheath that toy, or I can make it melt. Your choice, but decide quickly—this is about to become significantly less civilized.

I watch the guard step closer, his sword already half-drawn because he thinks he can cow us. Predictable. I don't move back—I just let the rain hit my face as his blade leaves a stinging line across my wrist when I don't pull away fast enough. That's what you get for being slow and theatrical instead of efficient and quiet. The key is gone, but the real problem is obvious now: something under us is moving in rhythm, definite pulses vibrating up through the soles of my boots. Ground's breathing like a thing with lungs.