Round 20

The ancient wood beneath their feet screamed in protest as the magic binding it frayed like rotten rope. Varrika's boots found no purchase on the suddenly collapsing surface, her center of gravity shifting violently backward. Her mace, a trusted companion through countless battles, tumbled from her grasp with an almost comical lack of ceremony and vanished into the abyss below in a shower of splinters and dust.

Seraphine watched in horror as their stalwart warrior teetered on the edge, her sharp eyes tracking every terrifying moment. The bridge's structural integrity had failed catastrophically—the kind of sudden decay that suggested not mere age but active magical sabotage or dark enchantment. Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird, adrenaline flooding her veins as she witnessed their precarious situation deteriorate further.

The scholar abandoned her heavy tome of lore without hesitation, letting it thud to the stone floor beside the crumbling catwalk. Every instinct screamed at her to retreat, to put distance between herself and this cursed construct before its decay claimed them all. But Seraphine's academic curiosity warred with her survival instincts—what dark magic could cause such rapid structural failure? What ancient binding held these very stones together?

Varrika pushed herself upright using the railing as a lifeline, her scarred knuckles whitening with the effort. The adrenaline rush of near-death focused her mind with brutal clarity. She'd faced down far worse than a collapsing bridge... probably. Maybe.

"Alright, listen up!" Her gravelly voice cut through the wind's howl, carrying the authority of someone who'd survived countless battles by thinking fast and acting faster. "We've got no time to waste moping around. That bridge was a trap, plain and simple. Someone or something didn't want us getting in there." She gestured sharply toward the yawning chasm with her remaining hand, the other still gripping the railing for dear life.

The darkness below seemed to pulse with malevolent intent, the shadowy forms twisting into grotesque shapes that reached upward as if seeking their flesh. The wind carried a faint sound—a chorus of clattering bone and dry rustling—that raised every hair on Seraphine's neck. Skeletons. Of course it was skeletons.

"Boss," Varrika called out, her voice tight but controlled, "we've got company down below. And I don't think they're here for tea." She glanced back at the rest of the party, her expression grim but unmistakably alive. For now.