Round 956

The noose tightens. Each thunderous impact from behind sends fresh dust cascading down, coating Merrin's face and filling her mouth with grit. She spits it out, eyes watering, and focuses on the woman leaning heavily against her. Varikka's ankle is a mangled mess of swollen flesh and twisted bone, already purpling with bruises that speak of a painful future.

"Can you take any weight?" Merrin asks, though she knows the answer. She doesn't wait for it—there's no time. Instead, she shifts her grip, fingers digging into armored pauldrons as she tries to redistribute Varikka's mass across both shoulders. The dwarf woman is solid muscle and bone, easily twice Merrin's own weight in compact power. It's a struggle just to keep them both upright.

"Come on," she grunts, more prayer than command. "We need to get out of this fucking death trap before the whole damn place collapses."