Round 65 Transcript

As Jeane descends the winding staircase, the air grows thick with an eerie, greenish mist. The central rune's sickly light pulses brighter, casting an otherworldly glow on the walls. At the bottom of the stairs, a narrow corridor stretches out, lined with ancient stone blocks that seem to be slowly shifting and reforming themselves. The ground beneath Jeane's feet trembles, and a faint, acrid smell of sulfur wafts up from the pit that yawns open in the center of the corridor. A section of the wall behind a large, stone door slides open, revealing a narrow, dimly lit chamber beyond. However, the door's hinges creak ominously as it swings back into place, trapping the light from the corridor. The air is heavy with malevolent energy, and Jeane can feel the weight of the curse bearing down upon her.

The rune pulses again—brighter now—and I feel it like teeth on my skin. Something ancient and hungry stirs in the depths below us. Merrin is already too far gone, her body contorting in ways no living thing should move. The curse is spreading faster than we anticipated. Halie's right—the sword is cursed, no question—but dropping it here? In this place where magic festers like an open wound? That feels like throwing ourselves to the wolves. I tighten my grip on the crossbow, aiming it down into that darkness below. If whatever waits at the bottom of those stairs means to claim us, I intend to put up a fight. Varrika's steadying presence is reassuring—at least someone in this cursed tower has sense—but her eagerness to descend worries me. We don't know what's down there. We don't know the extent of this curse or what powers it might have over objects we bring near it. Drops the sword? Maybe, but not here. Not where whatever made that staircase is still watching. I move forward into the tunnel opening, my wings instinctively half-spreading as if to shield myself from... something. The air grows colder, thicker with each step down. I can feel the weight of centuries pressing in around us. This tower has been dead a long time—it doesn't want visitors. It wants offerings. Stay sharp, all of you. If we're walking into a trap, I'd rather see it coming than stumble blindly. The crossbow feels heavy in my hands now, inadequate against whatever ancient evil stirs below us. But it's something. It's more than nothing. The central rune pulses again—brighter still—and I swear I can hear something like distant laughter echoing up from the darkness below. Whatever waits at the bottom of those stairs, it knows we're coming. It's waiting.

I tighten my grip on the mace, senses straining as we descend into the unknown depths. The air grows thick with an ancient malevolence, and I can feel the weight of the tower's long-dead magic pressing down upon us. Stay sharp, all of you. If this staircase leads to a trap, I'd rather see it coming than stumble blindly into whatever waits at the bottom.