Round 67

Seraphine stood motionless at the base of the crumbling stone tower, her sharp elven senses straining against the oppressive atmosphere that hung heavy in the air like a suffocating cloak. The very stones seemed to pulse with an ancient, malevolent energy, and she could feel it clawing at the edges of her consciousness, trying to burrow beneath her skin. Her fingers tightened around the hilt of her staff, the worn wood a familiar comfort against the unknown.

The carving that Halie had spoken of caught her eye—an intricate sigil etched into the stone, its lines seeming to writhe and shift as she watched. She stepped closer, her boots crunching on scattered rubble, and extended a gloved hand toward it. The moment her fingers came within inches of the carved surface, a jolt of cold energy shot up her arm, making her gasp and stumble back.

"Careful," Jeane warned from behind her, her wings rustling as she maintained balance on the crumbling stones beneath them. "The magic here feels... wrong. Fundamentally twisted in ways I've never encountered before, even during my darkest rituals back at the academy." She moved forward cautiously, her crimson eyes fixed on the shifting runes. "Halie," she called out, keeping her voice steady despite the apprehension coiling in her gut, "can you identify what type of binding magic those are? Specifically—are they designed to contain or to control?"

Merrin squinted at the crumbling tower ahead, trying to pierce the gloom with his roguish eyes. The air felt thick and oily, like it was full of unseen threats just waiting to spring out and grab him. He swallowed hard. "Right, so..." he muttered, more to himself than to anyone else. "Let's see what we've got here." He stepped forward cautiously, testing each stone before putting his full weight on it. The last thing he needed was for the whole damn tower to come crashing down on top of him.

As he moved closer, he caught a whiff of something foul—like decay mixed with brimstone and old blood. His hand instinctively went to the crossbow slung across his back, fingers curling around the familiar stock. "Well," he said, voice barely above a whisper, "that can't be good."