Round 7 Transcript

The air in the chamber seems to thicken as the violet glow from the gate pulses brighter still, casting an eerie light on the mist's slow, creeping advance. The sound of scraping stone echoes through the chamber, growing louder with each passing moment, until it becomes a deafening screech that sends shivers down the spines of the companions.

Varrika's eyes narrow as she watches the mist tendrils curl around the fallen skeletons' bones, the violet glow pulsing with an eerie hunger. She grips her mace tighter, the worn wood familiar in her calloused hands. "This ain't right," she growls, spitting on the ground. "Whatever that mist is, it's unnatural." Her gaze darts to Halie, the cleric. "Halie, you got any holy water left? Might be we need to bless these bones anew if we want to keep the undead from rising again."

She takes a step forward, her heavy boots crunching on the stone floor. The screeching sound from beneath the floor grows louder, setting her teeth on edge. Varrika's been in her share of battles, faced down foes that would make most folk soil themselves, but this... this feels different. Wrong, deep in her bones. Still, she sets her jaw and readies herself to face whatever emerges from the mist. "Jeane, Merrin, stay sharp," she barks over her shoulder. "We don't know what's comin' next, but I guarantee it won't be friendly." She turns back to the gate, her mace at the ready, prepared to meet whatever threat looms with grim determination. In her years as a soldier, Varrika's learned that sometimes the only way through is straight ahead, no matter how dark the path may seem.

I feel the wrongness of this magic like a physical blow—necrotic power twisting the natural order. Merrin, Varrika, stand back! My wings unfurl instinctively, their dark leather catching the violet light as I step forward to shield them from whatever is emerging through that mist. The air tastes foul, thick with decay and something else... ancient hunger.

I raise my hand, arcane energy gathering at my fingertips in a coruscating dance of shadow and fire. Halie, prepare your blessings—the dead are rising wrong here. Seraphine, if you see any sigils or wards on the walls, mark them! We're dealing with something that pre-dates even the tower's fall. The screeching grows louder beneath us as I pour my will into the spell.

I shudder as the screeching sound grows deafening, bones scraping against stone. My grip tightens on my crossbow, muscles tense for a fight. But there's no clear target in this mist. I need to find an angle, a way to get us in without triggering more of these... things. Halie! Varrika! Get behind me and stay low! I crouch, scanning the shadows cast by the violet glow, looking for any sign of movement or danger. The air is thick with the stench of decay, but there - a faint shift in the mist, just ahead. I nock a bolt, ready to fire at the first sign of a threat.