Round 26

The tower's wards pulse with dark energy even in total darkness—as if the stone itself is breathing. Jeane traces patterns in her mind, feeling out the geometry of this trap. These are old spells, predating her time by centuries, bound in blood and shadow rather than mere arcane theory. Varrika’s instinct for battle is admirable but misplaced here. We can’t just hack our way through magic we don't understand—the ward's trigger points map like a three-dimensional sigil, each pressure plate connected to...

I watch the scuttling sounds draw closer, my heart hammering against my ribs. The darkness presses in, thick and choking, and I feel the magic of this place like a physical weight on my skin, ancient and hungry. "Jeane," my voice is a strained whisper, so low it's nearly inaudible over the rumbling growl echoing through the corridor, "what are you seeing? Are those runes reacting to our presence?" My eyes strain to pierce the gloom, but all I can make out are the vague shapes of my companions and the faintest glimmer of arcane symbols on the walls.

I move close to Merrin, voice low. "Don't rush in. We need to understand these wards before we trigger more of them." I glance at Varrika's ready stance. "I know you want to fight, but think—every time one of us disturbs the wrong stone, another bone bag gets up to dance." I turn to Jeane. "What are you seeing? Are those runes reacting?" I grip my holy symbol, silver cold against my palm. The magic here feels...wrong. Like rot underneath the stone.

The darkness presses in, thick and cloying, as the scuttling sounds draw nearer. Varrika grips her mace tightly, muscles coiled and ready for battle. Her keen dwarven eyes strain against the oppressive darkness, trying to discern any hint of movement or threat. She calls out to her companions, her gravelly voice cutting through the heavy air. "Stay sharp, everyone. Whatever's coming, it ain't friendly." Her gaze darts to each member of the party in turn, assessing their readiness.