Round 22 Transcript

As Seraphine speaks, her words are met with a mixture of fear and desperation from the rest of the party. Halie's grip on Seraphine's arm tightens, her eyes fixed on Jeane with a mix of worry and concern. Varrika, still frozen in place, seems oblivious to the danger that has taken hold of her companion. Jeane, however, remains transfixed by the Time-Splitting Sword, its glow pulsating in time with her own heartbeat. The air around her begins to ripple and distort, as if reality itself is being warped by her newfound connection to the ancient power. The Writhing Roots close in, their clicking sounds growing louder as they prepare to strike. Suddenly, Jeane's eyes snap back to life, and she lets out a manic laugh, her voice dripping with an otherworldly energy. "I've got it!" she exclaims, her hands weaving intricate patterns in the air. "I can control them! I can make them do my bidding!" The words are met with a chorus of horror and dismay from the rest of the party, but Jeane's eyes burn with an unyielding determination, and she raises her hands to the sword, ready to unleash its full power upon the world.

As the party's argument grows more heated, I find myself growing increasingly uneasy. Jeane's strange behavior, the way she seems to be consumed by the power of the sword—it reminds me too much of the veterans I saw in the war, lost to madness and corruption.

I pick up my mace, feeling its familiar weight in my hands. It grounds me, reminds me of who I am and what I'm here for. We came to this tower for a reason—to retrieve the sword, yes, but also to keep it from falling into the wrong hands. And right now, those hands seem to be Jeane's.

I move to stand beside Halie, my weapon at the ready. The Writhing Roots part before me, their clicking sounds dimming slightly as I approach. Jeane's eyes narrow as she sees us, her hands still weaving those strange patterns in the air. "What are you doing?" she hisses, her voice thick with a power that makes my skin crawl. "I've got this under control!"

But Halie stands firm, her sword raised to block any attempt at reaching the altar. "Jeane," she says, her voice firm but tinged with concern, "this isn't you. Whatever you think you're doing, whatever power that sword is offering you—it's not worth it. It's corrupting you."

I nod in agreement, my grip tightening on my mace. "We need to get out of here," I say, my voice low and urgent. "Before whatever's happening to Jeane happens to the rest of us." I glance at the door we came through, half-expecting some new horror to come pouring in.

But Halie shakes her head. "We can't leave without the sword," she says, her eyes flicking to the Time-Splitting Blade where it rests on the altar. "That's what we came here for. And if Jeane's right, if she can control it..."

I hesitate, torn between my loyalty to my companions and the growing sense of unease in the pit of my stomach. The sword is important, yes—but at what cost? What are we willing to sacrifice to claim it?

Jeane's eyes flash with an inner light that seems almost too bright for her face. This isn't possession—this is revelation! The runes aren't responding to corruption; they're recognizing genuine arcane mastery! She can feel the power coursing through her, ancient and vast beyond measure. This is what she was born for—not some mundane sword, but a conduit to true cosmic significance!

She turns to face Halie with an expression that's almost pitying. "You don't understand," Jeane says softly, her voice layered with resonance like music. "I'm not being controlled—I'm ascending. This sword chose me because it recognizes my power."
Her gaze shifts to Seraphine and Varrika in turn, each meeting their eyes for a fraction of a second before moving on. "The roots are irrelevant—mere distractions from the main event." A smile plays across her lips as she raises both hands towards the pulsing Time-Splitting Sword above the altar. "Watch closely. This is what real power looks like."

With deliberate slowness, Jeane begins weaving a complex pattern in the air between herself and the sword. The arcane symbols she traces glow with an inner light that matches the blade's pulses exactly. She can see the threads of magic now—can almost grasp them with her mind! "I'm going to prove it," she murmurs, more to herself than to anyone else. "One way or another."

I stand firm between Jeane and the altar, my sword raised and my eyes locked on hers. "Jeane, listen to me—this isn't you. Whatever power is speaking through you now, whatever vision you think you're having... it's a lie." The air around her ripples with dark energy, and I can see tendrils of shadow beginning to trace her silhouette. "I've seen this before—the corruption that comes from ancient magic misused. And right now, you're playing with fire."

I take a step forward, my voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "I'm not letting anything use one of us like this. The sword can burn in whatever hell it came from for all I care." My free hand moves towards the silver cross at my neck—my only true weapon against such corruption. "You're my friend, and I won't let this thing take you away from me."

The Writhing Roots seem to sense the confrontation, their clicking sounds growing louder as they circle closer. But I don't look away from Jeane—not for a second. "There's still time," I say softly. "Walk away from that altar now, and we'll figure this out together." My fingers close around the cross, drawing strength from its familiar shape. "But if you don't... then I'll have to find a way to stop you myself. And that's something neither of us wants."

I meet her crimson eyes with a steady gaze, my heart pounding in my chest. "Choose—choose yourself over whatever dark promise this sword is offering."