Round 80

Halie moved forward with caution, her boots testing each stone step before committing her weight. The air here felt wrong—like pressing against something thick and resistant, clinging to her skin with oily residue. Merrin's injury made things worse; she needed rest, not more recklessness. The weary human woman turned to face her companion directly.

"Merrin," Halie said, her voice firm but compassionate, "your knee is scraped badly. You should sit this out." She gestured around them at the crumbling stone walls, the pulsing green runes that seemed to writhe with malevolent intent. "Jeane's scrying shows only darkness ahead—we don't know what's waiting. We need clear heads and steady feet."

The air in this accursed place tasted of ancient rot and something far worse—the sharp tang of demonic sorcery. Seraphine drew in a slow, steadying breath, her fingers tightening around the torch she carried. Its flame cast flickering shadows across the pulsating runes etched into the crumbling stone walls of the stairwell.

My gaze darts from Merrin to Halie and back again, the sharp-eyed elf scholar thought, a silent question passing between us all. The malevolent energy here is unlike anything I've ever encountered in my studies of the arcane—this feels like a wound in reality itself.