Round 15 Transcript

As Jeane steps into the darkness, her heavy mace at the ready, a faint glow emanates from the runes she sketched on the parchment, illuminating the dusty air. The whispering voices grow louder, and the air shimmers with an oppressive weight. A skeletal warrior, its bones cracked and broken, lurches forward from the shadows, its bony hands grasping for Jeane. The party's torches flicker, casting eerie silhouettes on the walls as the skeletal warrior closes in. Merrin darts to the side, narrowly avoiding a bony fist, while Halie readies her blessings. The Devourer's presence looms, a dark and foreboding energy that seems to be drawing the party deeper into the tower.

The heavy mace feels solid in my grip as I step through the threshold, the dark hallway stretching before us. I can practically feel the weight of ages bearing down from the stone walls. These old towers are never kind to intruders. I scan the shadows, every sense on alert. The air here feels... wrong. Not natural, not right. Magic, but twisted somehow. Like it's watching us, waiting. "Keep your wits about you," I mutter to the others. "This place has teeth." I gesture with the mace at the narrow passage ahead. "Stick close and stay sharp. And for the love of the ancestors, no splitting up in here."

My eyes dart to Merrin, fidgeting with those runes. "Especially you, lockpick. You're our best bet for getting us through this mess in one piece." I give her a meaningful look. "So focus that clever mind of yours on keeping us all breathing, yeah?"

I take a step further into the gloom, muscles coiled and ready. The shadows seem to press in from all sides. But a dwarf doesn't shy from the dark. We face it head-on. "Let's move," I growl. "Before whatever's lurking in this pit decides we've overstayed our welcome."

I step into the darkness, mace ready, and runes illuminate air like frozen breath. The whispers become voices—low, promising, hungry. Merrin's muttering about magic grates on my nerves; we don't have time for theoretical debates with active threats in our faces. Jeane studies the archway runes carefully, sketching patterns. Wrong magic indeed, but right now I need to map this ward’s trigger points before it summons an entire undead parade. Halie, keep those blessings ready—I'll need them if we stumble into a graveyard party. Merrin—stop thinking about those damn runes for now and focus on keeping us alive. The air feels wrong, like sucking air through wet cloth. Something ancient and profane pulses behind the stone. I hear bone scraping before I see it—the skeletal warrior lunging at Varrika with a rusty sword. She meets its attack, metal ringing, but these bastards don't die from losing heads. I circle around their clash, drawing sigils for light wards as I move. The warrior's empty eye sockets track me, and I feel the wrongness intensifying. The Devourer can wait—we have undead assholes to eviscerate first. Varrika, keep buying us time with that iron stubborness of yours. Halie, Merrin, stay behind cover—I don't need you two getting yourselves hexed before we even get inside properly. I trace the ward's edges with my mace tip, feeling the magic thrum like diseased veins beneath stone. Whatever this thing is, it's not natural death—it's something worse, something that learned how to make corpses walk after they should've rotted. That takes effort, and I respect that kind of dedication, even if it's applied to the wrong craft. The warrior keeps coming, relentless, and Varrika grunts as she catches its blade again. Good—she's keeping its attention while I work. The runes flash when my mace touches them—confirmation that we're dealing with something old and nasty. Whatever happened here, it wasn't natural passing. I complete the mapping quickly, then step back. Okay, ward's trigger is those three stones there—they pulse in sequence before each summoning. Step on one wrong and we get more company. Stay light-footed and we might avoid setting off the whole damn orchestra of death. Now—who wants to volunteer for point while I prepare some counter-magic?

The air feels heavy, wrong, like it's pressing down on us from all sides. I can practically feel the weight of those ancient, profane runes on my skin as we step across the threshold into the tower's yawning darkness. I keep my crossbow at the ready, fingers twitching near the trigger as my eyes dart from shadow to shadow. The whispers are louder here, scratching at the edges of my mind like rat claws on stone. I want to cover my ears, but I can't afford to lose a second's warning. "Stay sharp, everyone," I mutter, more to myself than to the others. "Wrong magic is never a good sign. If something feels off, we pull back and reassess." I glance over at Jeane, sketching those damn runes with her mace tip, and feel a twist of unease in my gut. "Hey, Jeane - when you're done with that, let me see it, yeah? Might be able to make sense of the pattern."

My eyes slide back to the gloom ahead, searching for any hint of movement or danger. The skeletal warrior that leapt from the shadows caught us off guard last time. Won't happen again if I have anything to say about it. I feel a prickle of unease at the thought of what other horrors might be lurking in this accursed place, waiting to pounce when we least expect it. But there's no help for it now - we're committed. All we can do is keep our wits about us, trust in each other, and pray to whatever gods might be listening that we live to see the light of day again. Because one thing's for sure - something ancient and angry is stirring in this tower, and it won't give up the Time-Splitting Sword without a fight. We'd best be ready for it when it comes.