Round 7 Transcript

The crimson sigils erupt into a shimmering field that lurches forward, pushing the guard’s sword‑arm back with a sudden, icy sting. He stumbles, his foot slipping on the slick ash, and lands hard against the freshly opened fissure, sending a spray of black fluid splashing across his armor and dripping onto his boots. The ground shudders again as the fissure widens, a low groan echoing through the ruined city.

I let the sigils fade as the guard staggers back from his unexpected fall. The black fluid spreading across the road isn't normal—it's too thick, too dark—and I don't like how it seems to pulse with a slow heartbeat after coating his armor. Interesting response, city watch, I say coolly, stepping forward through the rain despite my tired bones aching for rest. I'm reconsidering whether we need your permission at all. I gesture sharply to Silra and Sister Hale: Fall back. Then I draw a fresh sigil in the air—this one designed to test boundaries. The crimson lines flare as they hit the invisible barrier that pushed the guard's sword away, tracing its edges. It feels wrong under my fingers; cold and hungry, like it wants more power fed into it. The ground shudders again, harder this time, and I hear a distant sound like claws scraping against stone from beneath us. I call out to the groaning earth in the language of old things: We come only to build what was broken here—do we have your leave?

I watch the guard tumble into his own mess with a smirk despite my wrist screaming. The black fluid spreading from him is… wrong. It doesn't behave like water or mud—it's too alive for that shit. Jeane steps forward like she owns this disaster, and I have to admit it's got style. Interesting response, city watch. The guard’s trying to push himself up, but the black goo is eating into his armor now, corroding metal with a soft hiss. Fuck.

That fluid's not street filth, love—that's something that crawled out of a sewer dream and decided our timing sucks. I keep my eyes on the ground around us—it's shifting, tiny cracks spreading like veins under the ash. Unless you've got a plan that doesn't involve more of whatever-this-is getting loose, we should probably back away slowly before it decides we're part of the menu.