Round 43

The air grows colder with every descending footfall, clinging to her robes like frozen mist and stealing what little warmth remains in this cursed place. Seraphine's keen elven eyes strain against the gloom as she follows Jeane's fading form deeper into the collapsing tower. The walls here are slick with an oily residue that seems to seep from the very stone itself, ancient carvings writhing in the dying torchlight—sigils designed to contain something terrible. She can feel it now, a malevolent presence coiled deep within the tower's heart, waiting.

Her breath fogs in the frigid air as she speaks, voice barely above a whisper. "Are you sure about this? The magic here... it feels wrong. Darker than anything I've encountered before." The words seem to echo ominously in the narrow stone passage, swallowed by the oppressive silence that presses down from above and below.

Jeane's silhouette pauses at the bottom of the stairs, her tall succubus frame outlined against the deeper blackness beyond. "Sure? No. But..."