Sir Thickrod's Fellowship

The illusion thins into drifting motes. Beneath the false masonry, black smoke coils directly above a sunken section of floor, twisting in a pattern that makes the air taste bitter.

The fugitive drops to one knee, sweeping dust from cracked stones with frantic fingers. The elderly witness braces herself against her staff and watches the dark coil above him.

As Sir Thickrod approaches, ancient runes flare around the buried floor, their blue-white marks forming a ring beneath his boots. The smoke recoils, then gathers over a single carved sigil.

Far below, a stone knocks against stone. The sound travels up the tower like a warning, and the hunters' distant voices begin to rise again beyond the broken walls.

Sir Thickrod opens himself to the sigil. Blue-white light pours through his veins, and the bitter air fills with the deep, patient rhythm of ancient magic.

The carved mark beneath Sir Thickrod’s boots brightens. His blood is accepted without demand or pain, and the spiral of black smoke sinks into the stone.

A seam splits the sunken floor with a low thunder. Slabs withdraw into darkness, revealing a narrow stair descending through walls veined with sleeping silver.

Cold air rises from below, carrying the scent of rain and old stone. Behind them, the hunters’ voices grow clearer, but the hidden passage now stands open.