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[h2][color=64520A][i][b]Daxos Ironbow[/b][/i][/color][/h2][i][b][color=64520A]Dwarf, Rogue, Thief, Level [/color]05[/b][/i]
[color=64520A][i][b]HP:[/b][/i][/color] 43 / 43	[color=64520A][i][b]Armor Class:[/b][/i][/color] 14	[color=64520A][i][b]Conditions:[/b][/i][/color] N/A
[color=64520A][i][b]Location:[/b][/i][/color] The Coach House
[color=64520A][i][b]Action:[/b][/i][/color] Chaos Ensues
[color=64520A][i][b]Bonus Action:[/b][/i][/color] N/A
[color=64520A][i][b]Reaction:[/b][/i][/color] N/A 
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[right][img]https://i.ibb.co/p67XnxBB/IMG-0542.jpg[/img][/right]
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The moment the last stone gave way and Blackberry wrestled the frame free—inch by inch through firelit tendrils and grinding dust—the stale air of the hidden chamber exhaled into the cellar. The glow from within painted the doorway in a sullen red, a pulse of arcane light that danced off motes of drifting stone powder.

And the room beyond…
A magic circle dominated the floor—engraved deeply, illuminated from within by a contained crimson radiance. Runes circled its perimeter like watchful eyes; the center held a symbol that refused to settle into a single meaning. A rune atop a rune, maybe. Or something older. Something with teeth.

To the left: crates.
To the right: a table fitted with leather straps and metal cuffs—functional, unforgiving. Across the way: a lonely shelf of baubles and books.

It was a wizard’s workroom.
Or a prison.
Or both.

BlackBerry marveled at Daxos’s handiwork, stepping forward with due caution, tendrils pulling the door free like a surgeon removing a bone from a wound. 

Then—
The magic surged.
A ripple.
A pulse.

A sudden wrongness in the air like pressure shifting before a cave-in. Lizbeth froze, the sudden narration of her every move and then her bolting, a streak of panic and instinct. Victoria blinked out of existence mid-breath, with no warning.

Daxos staggered, fingers curling into a fist as something unseen brushed across his senses—not a strike, not a spell, but like falling forward without moving. A tug on the mind. A whisper of displacement. His instincts screamed—trap, collapse, ambush, run—but decades of training and survival snapped hard against the rising tension. He drew himself up to his full height, slammed his boots into the stone for grounding, and let his voice tear through the chaos like a war horn.

[color=64520a]“EVERYBODY—HOLD YER DAMN POSITIONS!”[/color]
The command cracked the air.

[color=64520a]“Settle yerselves! Nae panickin’—nae runnin’—eyes up an’ hands where they should be! We’ll nae make sense o’ anythin’ if ye scatter like startled goats!”[/color]

The authority in his voice wasn’t loud for loudness’ sake—it was the tone of a dwarven tunnel captain calling orders during a cave tremor, one meant to cut through fear before fear made fools of everyone.

His gaze swept the room, sharp and assessing despite the churn in his gut.

[color=64520a]“We keep calm, we take stock, an’ we do this proper. Nobody moves ‘less they’ve a mind tae be crushed, cursed, or worse. HOLD.”[/color]

He planted himself firmly at the threshold, one hand braced on the stone, the other hovering near his belt—steady, controlled, every sense straining.

The chaos would sort itself in moments. But only if someone stood still enough to anchor it, and that someone, for now,
was him.