Round 19

Silra moves through the abandoned church like a ghost, her teal eyes scanning every dark corner for threats. The stone walls seem to close in around them, the air heavy with the weight of centuries past. She can feel it—the lingering presence of something ancient and hungry that still haunts these halls. But right now, their biggest threat isn't ghosts; it's the woman beside her who seems determined to turn this holy ground into a brothel.

Jeane glides along behind her, her wings trailing shadows across the dusty floor. The succubus' crimson eyes gleam with anticipation as she watches Clarice hover nervously near the doorway. "My dear," she purrs, "why don't you lead us somewhere more... private? I'm sure we can find a room better suited to our needs than this drafty main hall."

Silra's grip tightens on her sword hilt, the cold metal a grounding presence against the growing dread in her stomach. "We're not here for your perverse little rituals," she hisses, "we're here because we need allies—strong fighters who can help us survive what's coming. Not... whatever this is."

Jeane turns to face her, her smile never faltering despite the rogue's obvious disgust. "And what exactly do you think I'm doing, Silra? Building an army of mindless drones?" She laughs, the sound echoing unnaturally in the stone chamber. "No—these women are choosing this. Each and every one. They feel that power calling to them, that promise of strength beyond imagining... and they come willingly."*

Silra opens her mouth to respond, but a sudden creak from above cuts her off. Both women freeze, eyes locked on the ceiling as dust filters down through a crack in the roof. "What was that?" Jeane hums, her wings unfurling instinctively.

Silra's hand moves to the dagger at her belt, muscles coiled and ready for action. "We're not alone," she breathes, "and I don't think our unwanted guest is here for a friendly chat."