Round 86 Transcript

As Varrika addresses the pulsing rune with challenge, the air thickens further, and the crack in the wall spews forth a noxious cloud of death magic. The force of the blast sends Varrika stumbling backward, her mace slipping from her grasp. Jeane's crossbow bolt remains lodged in the stone above, but the trigger is torn from her hand by the magical backlash.

I force my wings tight against my back, the feathers aching as if pressed against hot coals. Every instinct screams retreat, but I won't abandon them. Not here, not like this. The rune pulses again, brighter now—central heartbeat of whatever cursed machine we're dancing on top of. Halie, keep Merrin steady but don't use that healing potion yet unless absolutely necessary. Whatever we decide, we act together and we act smart. No heroics, no reckless barging ahead. We outthink this trap, or we all die here. Varrika's already at the bottom, mace ready despite her exhaustion showing through that fierce exterior. I respect the hell out of her determination even if it makes me want to shake some sense into her sometimes. That thing down there is eating her alive and she won't stop until it does. I edge closer to the top of the stairs, testing the sensitivity of the trap with a crossbow bolt or loose stone from above—trying to map its edges without triggering it outright. The edges of those inner lines—they're not just boundaries. They're active magic that reacts to presence. Stepping on them wrong could collapse the whole damn staircase. The central rune pulses brighter as if responding to my voice, and I swear something whispers back through the stones—hungry promises or threats, can't tell which. The edges of those inner lines—they're not just boundaries. They're active magic that reacts to presence. Stepping on them wrong could collapse the whole damn staircase. I need to get down there. Need to see what's really happening with Merrin and Varrika before this whole tower comes crashing down around us all. But how? Stairs are obviously cursed as fuck, and the air is thick enough already to choke on—death magic old and hungry, getting heavier by the moment. Options: Try to levitate down carefully, wings extended for control but still folded tight against the magical pressure. Or cast some kind of illumination spell to see through the gloom below without moving physically. Or... or I could be stupid and brave like Varrika seems determined to be, and just fucking descend anyway, mace in hand and crossbow ready. No. Bad idea. Too many variables, too much risk with no guaranteed reward. We need a different approach. Something cleverer than brute force or desperate magic. I turn back to Halie and Merrin at the top of the stairs—our last bastion of sanity in this collapsing death trap—and meet Halie's worried eyes. Any ideas? I ask, voice barely above a murmur. Because if we don't figure something out fast, none of us are getting out alive.

I crouch beside Merrin's contorted form, my fingers brushing her cold cheek as I whisper a prayer for her soul—assuming she has one left after what this sword did to her. The silver cross around my neck feels heavy, as if the goddess herself is weighing our sin in retrieving this thing. When Varrika stumbles back after that magical backlash, I flinch despite myself. We were supposed to be careful. This isn't working. Using a healing potion now won't save Merrin—she's already beyond help. But I can at least make sure she doesn't suffer more than necessary before the curse fully consumes her. And maybe, just maybe, there's something I can do to purify this place once we've dealt with... whatever remains of her. I look up at Varrika and Jeane, my voice tight but steady. "We need to think this through. Using that sword again is clearly too dangerous—look what it did to Merrin. We can't just keep trying until one of us survives. There has to be another way down without using its power or triggering more traps." I glance at the crack in the wall, still spewing death magic. "And we need to deal with whatever's causing this corruption before it spreads further."

I stand, moving closer to the unstable rune, despite every instinct screaming at me to back away. The air is thick and wrong here—old magic, hungry magic. But I'm a cleric, dammit. This is what I'm supposed to handle. "Let me try something." I reach into my pouch for my holy symbol of the Goddess of Light, the silver metal cool against my palm. Maybe some divine protection can at least buy us time or push back this foul energy. I won't use a healing potion on Merrin now—she's beyond saving. But I'll be damned if I let any more of us fall to this cursed sword or its lingering magic.

I stare down at Merrin's twisted form, her face frozen in a rictus of agony. My heart aches for her, but I push the pain aside. We have a job to do. "Jeane," I growl, "Test those edges carefully. Halie, keep Merrin stable but don't waste that potion unless it's life or death." I turn to the pulsing rune, its sickly green light seeming to mock me. "And you," I mutter, "we'll see how long your tricks last."

My mace feels heavy in my hands as I step forward, ready to face whatever fresh hell the tower throws at us next. I may be a dwarf, but even my hardy folk aren't immune to the lure of power. Still, I'd rather face a thousand more traps than let that cursed blade fall into the wrong hands. "We outthink this," I mutter under my breath. "No rushing in half-cocked." My eyes dart to the others, gauging their readiness. "Anyone got a better idea before we throw ourselves on those spikes?"