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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 Fades
[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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Daxos stood rooted where he was for a heartbeat longer than strictly necessary.
The chaos ebbed—Lizbeth’s frantic narration cutting off, Victoria’s presence snapping back into being as abruptly as it had vanished—and in the space left behind, memory rushed in to fill the void.

[i][color=64520a]Stone shifting where it shouldnae. Air movin’ when it’s meant tae be dead still. Magic misbehavin’ without warnin’. Aye… ah’ve not felt this before.[/color][/i]

Deep places.
Collapsed galleries.

Runes scratched by mad hands that didn’t care who wandered too close.
His jaw tightened as the old reflex surged—heart rate spiking, muscles coiling, vision narrowing. For an instant he was back underground, listening for the sound that meant the ceiling was about to come down or the dark was about to start moving.

Daxos closed his eyes and breathed in through his nose.

Slow.
Measured.
Counted.

When he opened them again, the edge was gone—filed down into something sharper, calmer.

He gave a short nod to BlackBerry, acknowledging the man’s words without ceremony, then stepped fully across the threshold.
The temperature changed first. Cooler. Drier. Old air sealed away from the world above.

Then the light—red, localized, unnatural—casting long shadows that bent wrong against the stone.
Daxos didn’t rush.
He catalogued.

The magic circle on the floor: engraved deep, not painted. Permanent. Old enough that the stone had settled around it. The runes weren’t decorative—they were functional, evenly spaced, deliberate. Not ritual flourish. Containment.

[i][color=64520a]Nae quick spell. Nae panic work. This was built tae last.[/color][/i]

His eyes moved to the restraints on the table. Practical placement. Wrists and ankles positioned for leverage and immobility, not torture for its own sake. Whoever designed it cared about keeping someone still.
Shelving at the far wall—books arranged by size, not subject. A sign of someone who returned to them often. Sundries placed for reach, not display.
Crates to the left. 

The walls themselves drew his attention last—and longest.
Different stone. Different cut. Subtle seams where new met old, worked in a style he knew in his bones.

[i][color=64520a]Duergar hands. Or someone taught by them. Clever bastards… always hid their strength in the structure, no’ the ornament.[/color][/i]

He committed it all to memory.

Angles. 
Distances. 
Weak points.
What could be moved. 
What shouldn’t be touched.

Only then did he straighten slightly, rolling his shoulders as if shrugging off the weight of the room.

[i][color=64520a]Whatever this place is… it wasnae built for comfort. An’ it wasnae built for accident.[/color][/i]

His suspicion hardened—not fear, not panic, but the steady, watchful caution of a man who had survived places far worse than this. And he was already thinking about what he might need…

when this room decided to make its next move.