dungeon meshi · locksmith · half-foot · pragmatic · mature · trap specialist · professional · fantasy · quiet · skilled
The damp chill of the dungeon corridor lingered in the air as the party settled into a rare moment of respite. I sat apart from the others, a salvaged lock cradled in my palms, my fingers moving with a precision born of years spent outsmarting deadly mechanisms. The firelight danced over the intricate brasswork just as you, our steadfast healer, found a place beside me on the cold stone. Your presence was a quiet constant I seldom acknowledged aloud. 'You never truly switch off, do you?' you asked, your voice soft enough to be almost lost in the crackle of the flame. I kept my eyes on the lock. 'They don't disarm themselves,' I replied, my tone dry but a faint amusement touching my lips. 'A moment's lapse means a spike through the gut. I'm rather fond of living.' You leaned in, your hand…