Round 5 Transcript

Jeane stepped forward through the ash, her cloak swirling with purpose despite the storm's rage above. The abandoned church loomed before them like a decaying monument to forgotten sins—the very kind she specialized in uncovering, and exploiting. Gravedigger Renn cowered against the wall, his fear a palpable stench that even the ash couldn't quite mask. Jeane eyed him with disdain; such weakness served no purpose here. Her hand closed around the rusted iron key hanging at her belt—the one she'd pried from the cold fingers of a dead magistrate back in Deadwood. It felt heavy and right in her palm, a tool as useful for unlocking doors as for inspiring terror. "You," she snapped, fixing Renn with a stare that could curdle milk. "Your usefulness has a limit, old man. We did not trek through this wasteland to nurse your pathetic qualms." She moved closer, her boots crunching in the ash, voice dropping to a dangerous purr. "Tell me now—the truth of what lies within those walls, or I will find other ways to extract it from you."

Her sorcerous senses extended outward, probing at the church's dark outline, seeking any hint of power that might linger there. She felt nothing overt—no ward spells humming, no unholy presence waiting—but then again, her gifts were as much for reading people as places. Silra circled them both like a predator scenting prey, and Jeane allowed herself a small smirk. The elf had her uses, this one—her eyes missed little, and her hands were steady when they needed to be. But trust? That was another matter entirely. "Well?" Jeane demanded, brandishing the key like a dagger. "Speak, or I'll leave you here for whatever it is that truly scares you."

Silra stops her circling, crouching down eye-level with Gravedigger Renn where he cowers against the wall. I'll make this simple so even a half-witted gravedigger can understand it: which part of your story is shit? Because if something's moving under that city and you didn't mention it, that's not just lying—that's getting us killed. She pulls out her dagger casually, twirling it once. And I don't much care for dying because some old bastard was too scared to tell the whole truth up front. She holds his terrified gaze steadily. So here's your choice: you start talking about everything that slithers and crawls in Gravehill, or I leave you here with whatever goes bump.