Round 45

Varrika charges up the stairs, her heavy boots pounding against stone. The barricaded door below groans under the weight of something large—skeletons perhaps, or worse. She reaches the top and finds herself in a narrow corridor lined with more of those damned ward-stones, their eyes pulsing with hungry light.

She spots the staircase leading up to the highest chamber—the one the shadow-thing mentioned. More importantly, she sees the massive iron door at its base, sealed shut with ancient symbols that match the ones downstairs. This must be it—this is where her remains are chained.

Varrika raises her mace and prepares to smash the door open. But then she pauses, a chill running down her spine as she notices something else—the wards here aren't just feeding; they're actively trying to block her approach. The symbols on the door are shifting, writhing like living things in pain or hunger.

She takes a deep breath and steps back. "Fuck," she mutters, knowing full well Merrin and Seraphine below can't hear her but hoping her hesitation buys them time. This isn't going to be as simple as smashing through. Those wards—something's wrong with them. They're not just passive defenses anymore—they're... alive.

She scans the corridor for alternatives, her warrior's instincts screaming at her to act before whatever's stirring below gets closer. The stonework here is crumbling, ancient and unstable. Maybe if she can find a way around this sealed chamber—

The ward-stones in the hallway begin to pulse faster, their red light intensifying. Something has changed downstairs—the ritual must have begun or the shadow-thing's control is failing completely.*

Varrika's scarred face hardens with grim determination. She spots a narrow service passage in the ceiling above—a ventilation shaft or servant's crawlspace, long sealed with cobwebs and dust. It's a tight fit for her dwarf frame, but beggars can't be choosers when your friends are trying to save your soul from eternal parasitic servitude.*

With a grunt of effort, she heaves herself up into the shaft, stone scraping against armor. The space is barely wide enough for her shoulders, and the dust makes her cough—a human would have sneezed. She wriggles forward, mace clutched in one hand, the other pushing against the stone ceiling.*

She emerges into a small chamber above the sealed door—almost like an observation gallery for whatever lies below. And there it is—the statue the shadow-entity mentioned. Not a statue of him, but him. Or rather, what's left of him—a male figure suspended in mid-curse, mouth open wide, hands outstretched as if casting a spell that went horribly wrong.*

Chains of blackened iron wrap around the body, digging into flesh that should have rotted away long ago. Instead, it seems... preserved. The skin is grey and waxy, the eyes empty sockets that still seem to glow with trapped consciousness.*

Varrika crawls closer on her belly, studying the chains. They're not ordinary metal—they writhe like living things, feeding on the body's magic. Each link pulses with dark energy that makes her teeth ache. She reaches out with a calloused hand, hesitating just inches from one of the links.*

This is it—this is the anchor point. Destroy these chains and the shadow-entity downstairs will be freed... or destroyed. But the wards are still active below—the moment she breaks this connection, whatever energy is contained here could explode outward through the whole tower.*

She pulls back, her mind racing. There has to be a better way—some spell component or tool that can sever magic without releasing it all at once. She doesn't have anything like that in her pack—Merrin maybe? No, Merrin's too small to fit up here even if she could get this far.*

Seraphine then. The wizard might have something—she's the one with the arcane expertise. But how to signal them without drawing attention from whatever's stirring below?

Varrika spots a loose stone in the chamber's wall—a piece of the crumbling ceiling that hasn't yet fallen. She takes her mace and taps it twice—once, then twice. A simple rhythm that might just carry through the stone.*

The stone falls with a loud crack that echoes through the tower. Below, Merrin and Seraphine would have heard it—they'd know something's happening upstairs.*

Varrika settles in to wait, eyes never leaving those chained remains. She'll give them five minutes—if they don't respond with some kind of signal or solution by then, she'll have to make a choice. Break the chains and hope for the best, or try to carry this entire statue back down through the wards.*

*Three minutes pass.**

*Four minutes.**

Five.