Round 10 Transcript

The guard’s blade clatters against the ash‑slick road as his arm recoils from the sigil’s sting; the metal shudders and slides free, skidding a few feet before splattering into the black fluid that now pools at the fissure’s mouth. The liquid ripples, sending a faint, oily mist up toward the storm‑dark sky.

Jeane watched the guard’s sword slide free, saw it disappear into the spreading black fluid—saw it ripple like a living thing, sending mist upward. "Interesting." She spoke softly, voice carrying an undercurrent of something almost amused. "Something about that fissure likes iron."

She stepped forward, unholy symbol in hand, though her eyes remained on the pooling liquid and the guard’s twitching form. The sigils at her feet pulsed, their crimson light bleeding into the ash‑gray world. "Silra, get back." Jeane gestured sharply with one gloved hand, her voice taking on a harder edge. "Hale, stay ready but don’t approach that fluid yet."

She knelt near the edge of the spreading blackness—too close for comfort—and pressed the cold metal of her unholy symbol against the ground. A low hiss escaped her teeth as she whispered something guttural. The crimson sigils beneath her flared brighter, and a wave of force pushed out from her position, striking the oily mist and disrupting it—but the black fluid continued to spread, now lapping at the guard’s fallen sword with what looked almost like hunger.

I watch the black fluid ripple unnaturally, sending oily mist up—I've seen enough cults to recognize the signs, and this isn't mundane. The guard scrambling back is a fool, but at least he's out of our way now. That sigil-shimmer has Gravedigger Renn whimpering behind me like a terrified puppy; Hale looks ready for whatever comes next. I move fast toward the edge where the sword clattered in, draw my own blade, and toss it point-first into the pooling fluid with a sharp spin—if it pulls it down too, we know what this thing feeds on. The metal disappears, swallowed whole by the liquid, which ripples harder before stilling for a long moment. Nothing else moves. I step back, hand now empty except for my lockpicks. "Well."