Round 70 Transcript

The Keeper of the Test's spectral hand lingers near Merrin's form, its eyes fixed on Jeane. "The test of worthiness starts now," it intones, its voice dripping with malevolent intent. The massive construct takes another step forward, its clawed hand still extended towards Merrin. Halie stands firm, her mace at the ready, while Seraphine takes a step back, her staff glowing with soft blue runes. Jeane's fingers continue to gather arcane power, her eyes locked on the Keeper. The air in the chamber seems to grow heavier, as if the very fabric of reality is being twisted to accommodate the Keeper's power. The construct's grinding sound grows louder, and it begins to move closer to Merrin, its metal frame creaking ominously. Suddenly, the ground beneath Halie's feet gives a faint tremor, and she stumbles slightly, her mace wavering in her hand.

The spectral hand crackles again—Jeane recognizes that energy pattern now; it's not just any dark magic but soul binding, old school, the kind of twisted sorcery that leaves marks on reality itself. Her gut clenches with recognition and dread.*

This is no ordinary test—the Keeper's words about worthiness aren't a challenge to overcome. This is something worse: permission granted for whatever fresh hell it has planned. "Stop," she commands, but her voice wavers despite the iron in her tone. The construct pauses mid-reach—did it hear her? Or does it just enjoy the sound of hope shattering? Jeane's fingers tighten around her arcane focus as she realizes: this isn't a moral dilemma anymore. This is a race against whatever sick ritual the Keeper has in mind for Merrin. "Halie, don't move!" she snaps. "Whatever you do, don't engage that thing yet."

I feel my grip on the heavy mace tighten as I watch Jeane gather arcane power. Her voice is steady, but there's an undercurrent of barely controlled panic that sends a jolt through me. The ground shifts again underfoot, and I have to widen my stance to keep my balance. "I'm ready," I tell her, though my heart is racing. The Keeper’s words echo in my mind—“test of worthiness”—and I know with bone-deep certainty that whatever this is, it's not going to be simple.

The construct looms over Merrin now, its massive clawed hand extended towards her. She lies there motionless against the wall of glowing runes, her eyes closed as if asleep or unconscious. The thought of what might happen next makes me queasy with fear. I can't just stand here and wait for orders—every second counts. "Jeane," I say, my voice tight but controlled,* "we need to act now. Whatever that thing is, whatever this trial is... we can't let it take Merrin."

I take a tentative step forward, the floor groaning ominously beneath me. The Goddess made me her handmaiden to face situations exactly like this—darkness, uncertainty, the weight of saving lives. I won’t let fear control me now. "Tell me what you need," I continue, my grip on the mace unwavering. "Healing? Protection? A distraction?" My eyes flick between Jeane’s tense form and the looming construct, trying to gauge which might be the greater immediate threat. The choice feels stark: intervene now with incomplete information or stand by and watch something far worse unfold. The air in this hidden chamber grows heavy and cold around us, thick with the stink of ancient magic and decay. My palms still sting from the rope burns—reminders of our haste to get down here. I know my physical strength is no match for that iron monstrosity, but neither am I helpless. The Goddess granted me her blessing for moments like this: times when courage matters more than might. "We can’t let them take Merrin," I say again, louder this time.* "Not while we still have breath and will to fight."