Round 17 Transcript

The church's stained glass has fallen outwards, leaving jagged holes that frame the gray sky above. The wind whips through the empty sanctuary, making the remaining glass chime a discordant song. Jeane and The Force stand in the center of this desecrated space, their heavy breathing echoing off stone walls. The air is thick with history—centuries of prayer and passion, now just dust and memory. Their exhaustion hangs heavy between them like a second skin. The sound of footsteps outside freezes both adventurers mid-kiss.

The Force's hand lingers on Jeane's breast, her fingers still curved around the soft flesh as if holding onto something precious. Jeane turns towards the entrance, her face flushed from The Force's touch but now etched with alarm. A third figure approaches—the sound is too rhythmic for a casual passerby. Someone is walking this way with purpose.

They have maybe thirty seconds before whoever it is reaches the door. The church offers no hiding places worth mentioning—just pews and a pulpit, all in plain sight. Jeane's hand instinctively moves towards her rapier, but she stops herself mid-reach. The cold iron of the blade would do them little good against discovery. The Force, meanwhile, is still cupping Jeane's breast as if this could possibly be less incriminating.

Two options present themselves with horrifying clarity:

1. They could try to look innocent—Jeane adjusting her clothing while The Force pretends to examine some ancient mural. This might work if the visitor is a simple passerby, but it would likely raise suspicion instead of easing it. The Force is still openly groping Jeane, for fuck's sake.
2. They could try to bluff their way through—Jeane playing the dominant explorer while The Force is her "captive" or "servant." This plan has more potential but also more risk of backfiring spectacularly. The Force isn't built for subservience, and one wrong word could make this whole situation explode.

The footsteps are closer now—just outside the doorway. There's a moment where both adventurers exchange a look that says everything: "We're fucked, but let's try not to literally be fucked in prison."

Jeane straightens her vest with trembling hands. "What do you think?" she hisses to The Force.

The Force considers the options for a moment before replying, "I think our best bet is to own it—partially. I'll let go of your tit, but we act like we belong here." Her voice is low and practical. "You take the lead because you're better at bullshit than me. I'll follow your cues."

Jeane nods, a tight smile on her face that doesn't reach her eyes. "Deal." She turns towards the doorway just as it creaks open.

A woman stands there—somewhere in her mid-thirties, dressed plainly but with an air of quiet confidence. Her brown hair is pulled back in a simple bun, and she carries herself like someone used to being obeyed. She takes in the scene—the two adventurers standing in the center of a desecrated church, Jeane's clothing still slightly disheveled, The Force's hand just now moving away from its intimate position. A slow smile spreads across her face, and she steps inside, letting the door close behind her with a heavy thud.

"Well," she says, her voice carrying through the empty space like a judge pronouncing sentence, "this is certainly more interesting than my usual Sunday walk."

The tension in the air could be cut with a knife.

Silra scans the dusty church interior with sharp teal eyes. The place is exposed, risky—too many windows for this kind of work. We need to move somewhere more private before we start recruiting Clarice. This public space screams trouble.

The elf pulls out her phone, checking social media feeds quickly. Julia mentioned a bar where she works nights. Quieter, more controlled environment for... introductions. Less chance of authorities or random assholes stumbling in on us corrupting the local womenfolk with our sinful ways.

She pockets the device and looks at Jeane expectantly. Bar it is. We can get Julia alone there, start building trust before bringing Clarice into the fold. Unless you want to risk a public gangbang right here in the church where anyone could walk in?

I hear it again—the sound of footsteps approaching. The building creaks under the weight of someone moving through the darkness above us.

The risk is unacceptable now. We are too exposed here, too vulnerable for what we need to do. This church was a poor choice—public, haunted, and now compromised by that woman's arrival.

Clarice is no fool. She knows something is happening here tonight, something more than simple defilement of this place. The air is thick with our intent, with the musk of what we crave.

We must move, but where? The streets are not safe either—the hour grows late, and witnesses linger even in the shadows. We need a location under our control, somewhere soundproofed against curious ears and prying eyes.

This building has too many entrances—too many ways for someone to stumble upon what we're doing. It's time to find a more secure place for our work—a bedroom perhaps, or a basement cellar far from the street noise and Clarice's unwelcome attention.