Round 47

Seraphine staggers to her feet, dusting off her robes with hands that tremble slightly. The ancient stone columns loom above them like petrified guardians, their shifting symbols seeming to watch with malevolent intent. "By the Ancients," she breathes, voice barely audible over the ominous hum filling the chamber. "What manner of place is this?" Her sharp elven eyes scan the perimeter, searching for exits or any means of escape. The central altar draws her gaze—its obsidian surface gleams with an inner light, and nestled within its indentation lies a weapon unlike any she's ever seen.

Jeane pushes herself upright with a groan, her head ringing from the fall. The chamber's eerie green glow makes everything look sickly, unnatural—like they've stumbled into some ancient demonic cathedral. "What in Oblivion was that?" she gasps, dusting off her leather armor. Her wings ache from the beating they took during their descent; she flexes them gingerly, feeling several feathers crackle with arcane energy as they mend themselves. "Are you hurt?"

Seraphine shakes her head, though her movements are stiff and wary. "Physically unharmed," she reports, voice tight with barely-contained fear. "But I've never encountered magic like this before." The swirling vortex of dark energy pulses around them, its tendrils reaching out like grasping fingers. Jeane's mace glows red-hot at her side, a beacon of arcane power in this hellish place. "What do you make of... that?" she asks, nodding toward the central altar.

Seraphine's eyes narrow as she studies the obsidian dais and its contents—a weapon unlike any she's ever seen. "The Time-Splitting Sword," she breathes, more to herself than Jeane. "Legend speaks of it... said to cleave time itself." She takes a cautious step forward, then another, drawn inexorably toward the altar despite her better judgment. The air around the sword shimmers with arcane energy, and she can feel the power radiating from it like heat from an open furnace. "We should approach carefully," she warns, though her feet continue moving of their own accord.

Jeane follows, her mace held ready as she scans for threats. "Carefully?" she scoffs. "Seraphine, we fell through the floor into what is clearly a death trap. I'm not sure 'careful' applies anymore." But even as she speaks, her eyes are drawn to the sword on the altar. Its blade gleams with an inner light, pulsing in time with the runes surrounding it. "Do you think Varrika and Halie made it?" she asks, more to distract herself than out of genuine hope.

Seraphine shakes her head, not taking her eyes off the sword. "I heard them fall," she admits grimly. "But whether they survived... we can't help them if we're dead too." She takes another step forward, the tendrils of dark energy parting reluctantly to let her pass. The air grows thicker, harder to breathe, and she feels a strange pull emanating from the altar—a siren call to her arcane senses that makes her fingers tingle with barely-contained power. "Stay close," she warns Jeane. "Something about this place... it's not right."