Round 49

Jeane stops mid-stride, her grip on Seraphine's hand tightening reflexively as she watches the liquid obey an unseen command. "Seraphine," she says, her voice low and tense, "I don't think this water is natural." Seraphine looks down at the churning surface, her sharp elven eyes narrowing as she tries to discern any pattern or purpose behind its movements. The cold seeping through her soaked robes makes her shiver involuntarily. "Agreed," she replies, her voice barely above a whisper. "And I don't like that we can't see the bottom of this pool." Suddenly, the water around them begins to bubble and froth, as if something massive is stirring in the depths below. A pale hand breaks the surface a few yards away—a woman's hand, delicate and beautiful, but coated in something dark and slick. Jeane's breath catches in her throat, and she takes an instinctive half-step back, pulling Seraphine with her.