Round 120

The dust was thick enough to choke on, swirling in choking clouds that obscured everything beyond arm's reach. Varrika spat grit from her mouth, squinting through the haze at the shifting pile of rubble blocking their only exit. The whole damn tower was coming down around their ears, and there wasn't a single thing she could do about it except brace herself against the wall and pray to every deity she'd ever heard of. She could feel the stone vibrating beneath her boots, grinding and groaning like a beast in its death throes. Another tremor hit, strong enough to make her stumble sideways, and she saw Merrin across the chamber clutching her crossbow with white-knuckle intensity. The halfling woman's eyes were wide and alert, scanning every inch of the perimeter for movement even as dust coated her face and hair. "Merrin!" Varrika called out, voice barely audible over the rumble of collapsing stone. "What do you see? Anything moving in that mess?" Merrin shook her head without breaking her vigilant stare. "Nothing yet," she replied, voice tight with tension. "But I can feel it—something's not right here. The air feels wrong, like magic gone sour." Varrika felt a chill run down her spine despite the heat of exertion. She knew that feeling all too well—the sickening taste of dark sorcery hanging heavy in the air. They needed to get out, and fast, but the collapsing corridor behind them was their only way back to the surface. And now it was blocked by a mountain of stone and debris. "Shit," she muttered under her breath, gripping her mace tighter. "We're trapped."