Round 111

The dust motes caught the torchlight in slow spirals, thick and lazy in the corridor's heavy stillness. Varrika kept her hand close to her mace haft, following Merrin's lead through the ancient structure. The walls here were older than time itself, it seemed—cracked stone and crumbling mortar spoke of centuries endured, perhaps millennia survived.

Then the groan sounded, low and deep from within the very fabric of the tower. Stone gave way near Merrin with a sudden cascade, collapsing inward in a choking cloud of debris. The halfling scout stumbled hard, the fall driving air from her lungs in a single agonized gasp as pain flared white-hot across her ribs.

Varrika was there before the dust could settle, her powerful hands gripping Merrin's shoulders to steady the fallen woman. "Merrin! Are you alright?" The dwarf warrior's voice came out rough with worry, her gaze sweeping the darkness for further threats even as she held her friend upright.