Round 22

The chamber air thickens with ancient decay as the central rune pulses brighter. Merrin falls into the pit, Varrika tosses her a rope. The skeletons in the depths grow more active, their bones rattling ominously. Jeane circles the perimeter warily, the magic here old beyond measure and hungry for new souls.

Merrin clutches the rope, terrified of what lies below. The sound is unmistakably undead—something ancient and ravenous waits in the darkness. Her rogue instincts scream at her to flee, but abandoning Halie or Varrika isn't an option. She can feel the magic pressing down from above, heavy and oppressive.

Varrika secures the rope with practiced efficiency, her hands steady despite her fear. "Grab on!" she shouts, her voice tight. Merrin reaches up but slips, falling back with a curse. The dwarf curses under her breath and begins tying off the other end to a stone column. "Halie, light!"

Halie moves closer to the pit's edge, holding the torch high. The runes writhe in the dancing shadows, pulsing with sickly red light. The air grows thicker, heavy with copper and decay. Something moves below—a low growl echoes up, followed by the dry rattle of bone.

The central rune pulses again, washing its red light over Merrin's prone form. The stones around them seem to shift, alive with anticipation. Varrika hauls out more rope, tosses it down. "Grab on!" she cries, her voice strained. Merrin reaches again, slips once more. The skeletons below grow louder.

Jeane circles the perimeter, wings held tight against her sides. The magic here is older than anything in her forbidden tomes—malevolent and hungry for new vessels. She can feel it pressing against her skin, trying to worm its way inside her mind. There has to be a pattern here, a purpose behind these wards.

Merrin clutches the rope tighter, her knuckles white. The sound from below chills her blood—the growl was unmistakably undead. Something ancient and ravenous lies waiting in the darkness. Her rogue instincts scream at her to flee, but abandoning Halie or Varrika isn't an option.

Varrika finishes securing the rope with practiced efficiency, her scarred hands moving with long-experienced certainty. She grips her mace tightly, the familiar weight a comfort against unseen threats. "Merrin!" she calls down, her voice steady despite the tension that betrays her fear. "Grab on! We're pulling you up!"

The central rune pulses again, washing its red light over Merrin's prone form. The stones around them seem to shift, alive with anticipation. Varrika hauls out more rope, tosss it down. "Grab on!" she cries, her voice strained. Merrin reaches again, slips once more. The skeletons below grow louder.

Merrin clutthttpsi02.tinypic.com/1386845h.jpg?bh1&bo1.