Round 1

The road into Gravehill was a path through ash and despair, choked with the dust of a dead city. The air tasted of sulfur and grief, thick enough to make breathing an effort. Before you, the city sprawled like a corpse—buildings collapsed, streets choked with rubble, and everywhere the oppressive silence of the dead.

To your left, barely visible through the gloom, stood what might have once been a grand manor house. Its stone facade was cracked, windows dark holes gawking at nothing. Yet something about it drew the eye—a strange geometry that hinted at secrets buried beneath the ash and time.

Jeane surveyed the twin paths before them—the way of order and the way of shadows—and felt the familiar thrill of ambition quicken her blood. The manor house to the left seemed ripe for investigation: perhaps its hidden rooms held forgotten lore or tools she could put to use. But no, that was a distraction. Her sights were set higher—literally.

"Renn," she called over her shoulder without looking back at the quivering fool behind them. "Your debt is paid. Return to your graves and leave us be." Her voice carried the cold authority of one who expected obedience.

Silra stopped at the crossroads of ash, her fingers already working the rusted key she had taken from the dead magistrate's pocket. She eyed the manor house with its strange geometry—the kind of place that probably had secrets worth stealing but also traps that killed people who found them. The church spire above was her destination, yes, but Renn's lingering presence made her skin crawl—he knew too much and would talk for the wrong coin if cornered.

The fork in the road forced a choice: left to the manor house or straight ahead toward the abandoned church? Both paths offered promise and peril. The approaching storm darkened the already gloomy sky—a reminder that time was not infinite here.

Sister Hale moved forward cautiously, her hand resting on the hilt of a small mace at her belt. The air tasted acrid with sulfur and decay, and the silence that had settled over Gravehill was heavy enough to choke any hope still lingering here. She glanced back at Renn, standing frozen in fear by the roadside markers—a man who'd brought them this far on promises of opportunity but clearly lacked the courage to walk beside them.

Cowardice often preceded trouble; better he leave now than drag his fears into their midst like a disease. The church spire above beckoned—her duty called her there, not these crumbling ruins of ambition and forgotten sins.