As the silence takes hold, Iromae realizes someone will likely come any moment. They have to do something! Already holding Vorenus' hand, she pulls him gently towards whatever nook or out-of-the-way spot she can see. She doesn't risk saying anything as she tries to keep as silent and motionless as possible. 

(Stealth: 8)

The silence inside the old tribunals is absolute. Too absolute. Every shuffle, every breath feels magnified. When Shenua’s boot slips, when Vorenus bumps the wall, when Iromae tugs him quickly into the shadow — it’s already too late.

From deeper in the passage, there is a ripple of sound — not boots, but cloth, soft and precise. Then the faint hiss of air displaced as a ward is broken. You hear a sharp click — not of steel, but of something arcane, deliberate.

And then the shadows move.

Figures detach themselves from the walls ahead and behind, dark silhouettes gliding silently on practiced feet. They do not speak. They do not draw blades. Instead, something cold and metallic presses against Iromae’s throat — not a sword, but a hooked iron rod, fixed with a shimmer of runes. Another clamps across Shenua’s wrists with unerring precision. Vorenus feels hands seize him from behind, far too many, far too strong to fight off in silence.

“No sound. No light,” a voice breathes in his ear. A whisper so close it vibrates against his skull.

And then comes the final command, quiet and deadly certain:

“Move.”

Iromae's heart pounds at the sudden movement and feel of metal against her throat. As much as she wishes she could object, their trio seems to have been overwhelmed.  She does as the voices say, keeping quiet, not producing any light, and moving as directed. She tries to calm herself, to get her pounding heart back to normal, and to think clearly.  While following every order, she tries to observe whatever she can about those who have captured them, and anything she can glean about their surroundings. (Perception: 8)

Vorenus feels the hands clamp and force his hands backward, he loses his connection to Iromae and he’s in the dark.  He has no option but to comply, he tries to get a gauge by sound and feel of how many are around them, how many hands are clamped down, how many voices and locations of movement.  He runs through quickly in his mind options of what he can do, there are some, but they all seem desperate.  Now does not seem like the time or place for action, but if matters grow more desperate, he will act.  He lets his limbs go limp, perhaps to give the assailants the impression of complete surrender, to build up their hopes of helplessness of their captive.  His mind is working furiously.  He walks forward in the manner that they lead him, practicing certain combinations and moves, spells in his mind as he walks, limbs limp and head down in submission as he does so.

Contrary to Iromae and Vorenus—and perhaps against her better judgment—Shenua doesn't react that calmly to the sudden feeling of metal clamping across her wrists. The tiefling grunts, twisting and tugging, trying to free herself—or at least carve out a little more personal space from whoever is restraining her.

Her resistance doesn't last more than a few seconds, knowing well enough that they are overpowered. Still, her stubbornness won't allow her to submit without at least that small show of defiance. Once she accepts her fate, she lets out a quiet, annoyed"tsk!" and falls in step with the others.

Even as she moves, her eyes flick to the shimmering runes etched into the rods, her scholar's curiosity sparking despite the situation. (Arcana: nope... 8)

While Iromae's and Vorenus' submission (or feigned submission) result in mild discomfort, Shenua's initial resistance results in the lifting of her bonds ceiling-ward, wrenching her shoulders, and causing her to bend forward uncomfortably. When she calms, her arms are returned to their more natural position.

The tribunal’s passageway swallows you whole as you’re pushed deeper in. The air is close, thick with dust and the faint tang of iron.

Iromae tries to focus, but her heartbeat drowns out her senses. She catches little more than shadows slipping ahead, the scrape of boots on stone. Whoever these figures are, they’re trained — their movements are efficient, their breathing measured. She can tell nothing of their number, only that resistance feels impossible.

Vorenus, surrendering his limbs to limpness, fares better. The pressure on his shoulders and wrists, the cadence of steps behind and ahead, the brushes of cloth — he counts at least four distinct captors, maybe five. Two are behind, one at either flank, and one leading the way. At least. They are coordinated, shepherding the trio like livestock through the dark.

Shenua glances sideways at her manacles before her head is forced forward again. What she sees is too crude to be true artificer’s work, yet too deliberate to be mundane. They hum faintly against her skin, not cutting, but dampening, like a lid pressed over a flame.

The captors steer you down the side passage, into a stairwell spiraling downward. The stone walls are slick with condensation, the sound of dripping water echoing faintly. Somewhere ahead, you can hear the low groan of gears or mechanisms shifting, deep and ponderous — not of this age, nor entirely natural.

You are brought to a halt in a chamber just large enough for the three of you to be forced to your knees. A heavy iron grate looms before you, its bars glimmering with faintly inscribed wards. Behind it, half-shrouded in the darkness, you glimpse a strange shape of polished stone — curved, massive, lined with grooves that catch even the dimmest light. A node, or part of it.

And then, at last, a voice — not from your handlers, but from somewhere beyond the grate. Calm. Cold. Certain.

“Three where there should be five.”

A pause.

“Bring them through.”