Round 752

The ground trembled again, a low rumble that seemed to vibrate through Merrin's bones. She pressed herself against the damp stone wall of the tunnel, her crossbow held ready but trembling slightly in her hands. The air was thick with dust and the faint, sickly-sweet smell of decay, making it hard to breathe deeply without coughing.

Varikka moved ahead with a limping gait, her injured ankle making every step a visible effort. She'd sprained it badly during their escape from the rising water table below, and despite her stoic silence, Merrin could see the pain etched into every line of her face. The dwarf woman stopped suddenly, holding up a hand for silence.

"There," Varrika whispered, her voice barely audible over the drip of water from above. "You hear that?"

Merrin strained her ears, trying to filter out the sound of her own rapid breathing and the constant drip of water. Faintly, she could make out it—the heavy thudding sound they'd been hearing intermittently since the magical portal had deposited them in this gods-forsaken place.

Varikka's grip tightened on her mace, knuckles whitening. "She's still following us," she murmured, more to herself than to Merrin. The Guardian was relentless—either driven by duty or some darker purpose—as they'd discovered multiple times already during their desperate escape through the collapsing tower.

The tunnel ahead split into two branches, both looking equally unappealing. One branch led deeper into the earth, the air growing warmer and more oppressive as they approached. The other branch angled upwards, a faint draft of cooler air promising an exit to the surface—but also potentially leading them into a trap. Merrin's fingers itched for her thieves' tools, but she knew there was no time for careful exploration. They had to choose quickly—and hope they made the right decision before their pursuer caught up.

Varikka glanced back at Merrin, her expression grim. "Which way?" she asked, her voice low.