Round 2 Transcript

Jeane studies Gravedigger Renn with cool assessment. His fear is authentic—he thinks we are fools for coming here. He thinks his warning is enough to send us scurrying back to our mundane lives. He does not know what kind of fool I am.

"Renn," I say, my voice carrying a practiced velvet tone that could coax secrets from stone, "the darkness cannot harm those who command it." I draw upon the unholy symbol at my neck; its surface feels warm in this ash-choked air. With deliberate care, I trace the sigils etched into its metal. "Show me where you fear this 'darkness' resides," I say, gesturing for him to lead us. "I will show you what true command looks like."

My intention is clear: not just to enter the ruin, but to demonstrate my power over whatever festers within it. Gravedigger Renn's fear makes him a useful tool—if he sees me command this darkness, his respect for our group will solidify into loyalty.

Silra steps past Gravedigger Renn's outstretched hands. Fear is cheap when you've already paid with your dignity, old man. I didn't come here to be scared off by a gravedigger who can't even look at his own work. She circles the crumbling church entrance like a cat checking a new windowsill, her gaze sharp and appraising every crack in stone, every loose flagstone. The air inside is colder than it should be—even for an abandoned building on a stormy day. This place has teeth. She doesn't need magic to feel that. Her hand brushes the rusted key from the dead magistrate at her belt. That lock looks older than this gravedigger's worst nightmare. 'Renn says there's nothing in here but shadows and regret,' she calls back over her shoulder, voice dry as dust. 'Let's see if he was lying about which ones move.'

I look at Gravedigger Renn with what I hope is compassion rather than disgust—his fear is pathetic but real. "Renn," I say gently, stepping closer despite my better judgment, "we're not here to face whatever darkness haunts this place unprepared." My fingers close around the unholy symbol; its familiar weight offers no comfort in the ash-choked air. "You have children?" I ask, already knowing the answer. His eyes dart away—I've hit the mark. "Then help us properly. Tell us where to find shelter inside the church that's safe from the weather and any... remnants." I hold up my lantern. "I will not leave you or your family at the mercy of this city's darkness. But we need solid information, not just warnings."

My voice is firm but not unkind—stubborn compassion rather than naive idealism. This old man's fear is a tool, and I intend to wield it.