Zevriel waits a heartbeat, giving Tarysaa and the others space to quiz the shield-golem if they wish. When no fresh questions spill forth, he rolls his shoulders, focusing on the corridor ahead. “Right, let’s move,” he says, voice steady but simple. He eases to the front, twinblade loose in his hands, and heads for the ragged gap in the west wall. Each step he tests the floor first, wary of more hidden plates or crumbling stone.

Halfway there a notion drifts across his mind: 'If Rajmund seldom wore that ring, why’d Lady Rephis think having it proved his fate?' The puzzle hangs there, just out of reach, and he gives a small shake—freeing the thought so he can keep his eyes on the water-slick stones and any lurking danger. “Eyes sharp,” he mutters to the group, blade ready as he slips through the breach to scout what waits beyond.

Zevriel continues through an area where only low wall stumps remain as evidence that there must have been a room here. The complete collapse of the upper floor in this area has practically buried everything with debris.

This is now, for all intents and purposes, not even a room anymore, but merely part of the 10'-wide corridor of debris that the collapse has formed, which at this point forms a T-junction with a narrower (5'-wide) corridor leading north. At the point corresponding to the northwest corner of the room, the broken bones of various creatures (mostly humanoid) have piled up.

Zevriel taps the stone lip of the narrow hall with his blade tip. “Tight, yeah,” he says to Tarysaa, voice plain. “But we’d better see what’s up there before we push on west. Don’t like surprises at our backs.”

He slips into the five-foot passage, shoulders turned, twinblade held low and sideways so it doesn’t catch. Each step he prods the floor first, eyes and ears open for the scrape of loose rock or the hiss of something hiding. “I’ll shout if it’s trouble,” he adds over his shoulder, then eases forward into the dim northern run (first 2, then 1). 

(How much time has passed since our last prayer?)

Tarysaa nods as Zevriel moves to explore the narrower halls.  She knows they must check all they can - to prevent surprises but to also see if they can discover the watery breach below and find the rings and Thetis' mantle.   The more they explore; the more 'responsibilities' seem to heap upon their shoulders.   She would be having a discussion about this whole 'mission' with the Harpells when she returned.

 In the meantime, she did her best to look in every direction at once as Zevriel disappeared up the tight space.

Perception check: 4   *facepalm*

While Mival can't help but question Tarysaa about the magic needed to create something like Rocksaucers, thus causing the Harpells' envoy to become hopelessly distracted on several occasions, Zevriel soon reaches a T-junction: the narrow path forks, allowing one to continue either north or west.

Tarysaa sighs, "Mival.... Mival...  I know some magic not ALL magicks.   I am aware of animated golems but, having something like Rocksaucers being able to carry on intelligent conversations is something far beyond my training to date.   You might get more of an answer from the Harpells."

She continues trying to look in all directions, "In the meantime, let us be vigilant and make certain Zevriel stays safe."

Zevriel keeps the narrow passage on his left shoulder and follows it straight north, preferring the long view to blind corners. Twinblade still held low and sideways, he inches forward until he can see where the corridor opens—or ends (1?).

Every few steps he pauses, listens for water shifting differently ahead (Perception: 13), then glances back to be sure Tarysaa’s light still glimmers at the bend.

Zevriel continues to move undisturbed, while the corridor, which initially headed north, begins to bend ever more sharply west. At a certain point, the intrepid explorer comes to see a new fork in the corridor—but he also realizes that Tarysaa, Mival, and the other party members have fallen far behind.

What to do?

Zevriel pauses at the new fork, frowning. The gleam from Tarysaa’s light is well behind him now—too far for comfort. He blows out a slow breath, then eases back the way he came, counting steps so he won’t lose the line. At the earlier side-pass he’d skipped, he tilts his head, thinking,'Quick look—then back'. He creeps a few paces in (3?), just far enough to see whether it widens or hides anything waiting. If nothing stirs and no sudden glow or draft meets him, he turns on his heel and heads for the party.

When he reaches the bend where their light flickers, he waves them on. “Northern hall bends west, keeps going,” he reports, voice low. “I checked the short branch—looks empty. Let’s stay together; sight’s too short in these tight walls.” He waits for everyone to close up before leading them forward again, twinblade ready but pace measured so no one falls behind.

Quote from cyreon >>

Zevriel pauses at the new fork, frowning. The gleam from Tarysaa’s light is well behind him now—too far for comfort. He blows out a slow breath, then eases back the way he came, counting steps so he won’t lose the line. At the earlier side-pass he’d skipped, he tilts his head, thinking,'Quick look—then back'. He creeps a few paces in (3?), just far enough to see whether it widens or hides anything waiting. ...

It only takes Zevriel a few steps to realize that the corridor he's now chosen leads to a room—and just then, a humanoid male figure appears at the doorway, floating weightlessly in the water, with electric blue skin and a long, dark blue robe decorated with various glyphs.

The figure looks at the newcomer with what appears to be a mixture of wonder and interest... but says nothing. And he doesn't leave the room, for now.

Zevriel eases back to the fork, keeping the stranger in sight until Tarysaa’s light catches the metal studs on his leather. He lifts a hand for quiet. “Found a man in blue skin—hovering in the water, long glyph-robes. Didn’t speak, just watched me.” He shrugs, voice plain. “Looks more book-wise than blade-wise. Maybe someone with better words”—he nods toward Elias and Tarysaa—“should do the talking.” He shifts aside, blade low but ready. “I’ll stay close, in case talk turns bad.”

"If he's book-wise..." Mival, all excited, encourages the Harpells' envoy "Who better than you to establish a good relationship? Let's go, be our ambassador, Tarysaa!"

The humanoid with electric blue skin and a long, dark blue robe decorated with various glyphs smiles and steps back, gesturing to invite his guest into the room. His attitude appears entirely friendly, yet he doesn't utter a single word. He touches his own mouth with his index finger, then quickly moves that same finger from left to right and vice versa, as if tracing and retracing an arch in the air, in a decisive, rhythmic movement that expresses rejection.

The room is bare and has absolutely no furniture, not even a door (and it may never have had any, as there is no trace of any remains). The walls of the room are entirely covered in arcane arabesques that appear to have been burned into the stone.

From the doorway, Tarysaa can see some of the arcane writings burned into the walls.   

Can she determine if they are familiar or even something she learned at the college or with the Harpells?

She understand the runes have magical meaning, but, well, they are like runes written in a spellbook - they have magical meaning but they are not inherently magical.

Zevriel keeps to Tarysaa’s left flank as she glides inside, twinblade low and harmless-looking but ready. He flicks a brief look at Rocksaucers and Mival waiting in the hall. “Eyes open,” he mutters—more reminder than order—then steps across the threshold after the wizard.

The rune-lit walls make his head swim, so he fixes on simple things: the stranger’s hands, the door, the floor. He says nothing, just offers the blue-skinned sage a curt nod that means, 'I'm here to watch, not to talk'. The dagger-sharp gaze stays roving while Tarysaa does the words. If the scholar twitches toward hostility, Zevriel’s blade is already half turned in his palm—quiet promise that the mage will not be left alone in this room of glowing scrawls.

The mysterious figure still doesn't respond, but seems exasperated, pondering... who knows what.

Then he points a finger at himself.
He turns to the side for a moment, so as not to face the sighing people, and gestures briefly—at which point his hand becomes covered in crackling electricity, sizzling ominously in the omnipresent water!
The energy, just as it had appeared, disappears.
He points a finger at himself again.
And stands motionless in a corner.
Then he points to the threshold.
He goes to the threshold and moves his lips (still without making a sound) looking in the direction he was before.
Then he points to himself, returns to where he was before, looks toward the threshold, gives a thumbs-up, and walks toward the threshold.

Then he looks again at the two visitors, with a hopeful and questioning expression.

Zevriel blinks twice, completely lost. He shrugs, pats his own chest, and gives a puzzled half-smile. “Friend, I don’t understand you,” he says plainly, voice low and apologetic. “If you need us to do something, best use words—or show us slower. Or write on the walls? Or come outside, outside the water?”

He looks sideways to Tarysaa and Elias, hoping one of the “clever tongues” can translate whatever message the blue scholar tried to mime.