Round 167

Varrika stumbles backward as her reflection takes a menacing step forward, the ground beneath them groaning ominously. The dwarf woman's scarred face contorts in terror and revulsion as she beholds herself made monstrous—her own features twisted into something predatory and cruel. "By the Ancestors!" she gasps, voice cracking with genuine fear. Her grip on the massive mace weakens, fingers slipping from the haft until it clatters to the crystal floor with a sharp crack that echoes through the shifting chamber.

Merrin's crossbow snaps up instinctively, aimed squarely at the approaching abomination despite her own hands trembling visibly. "Varrika!" The halfling woman's cry cuts through the air, sharp and urgent. She fires without hesitation—the bolt streaks true, punching into the thing's chest with a meaty thud that should drop any normal foe. But the monstrous reflection merely stands there, the shaft protruding from its torso doing nothing to slow its advance.

And then it speaks—Varrika's own voice twisted and amplified until it seems to come from everywhere at once. "You fear the darkness within, Varrika. You fear your own power." The words hang heavy in the air between them as the chamber groans around them, crystal formations shifting and sliding with ominous creaks.

Varrika staggers back again, her broad face going pale beneath its scars as she shakes her head violently. "No... no, that's not—" She cuts herself off mid-protest, unable to deny the truth of it even as terror coils cold in her gut.