Round 10 Transcript

Silra descends the stairs slowly, testing each step with her weight—elven grace and paranoia in equal measure. The air cools then turns cold like a tomb, carrying no scent of earth or stone but only that coppery tang she knows from a thousand dark places. Hear it now, clear as day: grinding stone, deliberate purposeful movement. Something mechanical down there building itself a way up. The unholy symbol on her belt pulses with heat against her thigh, like iron near a forge—her skin remembers the touch of hot metal from childhood lessons about what happens to thieves caught by smiths. This is worse than that. The stone remembers screams, old and fresh, mixed together in that copper taste. Something scratching at the floorboards upstairs when we arrived, something big dragging itself across the wood. Jeane descends behind her with a lantern held low, symbol flaring like a brand. Sister Hale stays topside, unholy symbol ready, playing lookout—the smart play. Keep the light steady but low—anything underfloor might be sensitive to light. And if it is, we want it disoriented. Silra draws one of her daggers—not for stabbing, for signaling. She taps twice on the basement floorboards above where the digging sounds come from: tap tap. Then waits. The grinding stops. After a long silence, three heavy thuds answer back—thud thud THUD—like something hammering in rhythm. The symbol's heat pulses again, stronger this time. Jeane curses under her breath; she feels it too. Right. So it's aware we're here and not just some dumb animal tunneling for shelter. It's answering questions with questions—playing a different game entirely. Fine. I play games better than anyone. Silra crouches low, pressing her ear to the floorboards. I'm going down there tonight—someone needs to hold the leash when the beast comes sniffing up from below. If it's too big to kill, we negotiate terms. If it's too smart to control, we burn the whole cursed place and find somewhere cleaner to establish our little church. She looks at Jeane, then back at Sister Hale upstairs.* You two stay close. Keep that rope tight—I'm not dragging either of you out if this goes wrong.

Sister Hale descends the stairs with her unholy symbol held out like a shield against the cold pressure that pushes back against them. The stone beneath her boots remembers screams—old and fresh—and tastes of ash and copper pennies. Her symbol heats until it's painful, but she doesn't let go. Listen to me, Sister Hale says, voice carrying authority despite the fatigue pulling at her limbs. We don't know what's down here. We don't know if this thing is even loyal to us—it could be using our presence as cover for whatever dark work it's doing. Her symbol pulses with heat, answering something below. I'm not sending any of you into a situation I won't walk into myself. But we need terms before we go barging into its lair.

She grips the rusted iron key from her belt—dead magistrate's token or master key to this cursed city—and holds it up beside the glowing symbol. If whatever's digging down there wants to be part of our order, then it answers to ME first. Her voice cuts through the mechanical grinding sound below. Not Silra's blades, not Jeane's fire—it kneels to divine authority or we put it down and salt the ground.

Sister Hale descends another step, unholy symbol held high like a standard. You hear me down there? Whatever you are—creature of this city or something older—I'm not here to make friends. The heat from her symbol intensifies as if in response to something listening below. I'm here to build an empire and cleanse this place with sex and power, and I won't have some subterranean rat undermining my authority before we even start.

Her intention is clear: assert dominance over the unknown entity beneath them by refusing to enter negotiations without setting boundaries first—making it clear that loyalty will be demanded on her terms.