Round 1

The rain falls like silver needles through the gloom, each drop striking mud-caked stone with a percussive insistence that seems almost rhythmic, almost alive. The wind moans through gaps in boarded-up windows and across the jagged edges of the church's broken steeple—a sound less like wind and more like something exhaling after great exertion. Jeane stands at the edge of the road, her hand resting on the pommel of her sword, a gesture both protective and assertive. The unholy symbol hanging from her neck catches what little light remains, seeming to pulse with an inner luminescence that has nothing to do with the lantern she carries.

The man in the doorway watches them approach with wide, terrified eyes—eyes that have seen too much already, or perhaps not enough. His gaze flicks between Jeane's confident stance and the two women who flank her, a silent calculation of odds and consequences playing out across his features. When Jeane speaks, her voice cuts through the rain's drumming with a clarity that surprises even herself—she has learned the power of a steady tone in moments of crisis.

"I seek only shelter from this storm," she says, taking half a step forward, her movements deliberate and unthreatening. She holds out her unholy symbol—a crude thing of black iron and twisted wire, but one that speaks volumes about the kind of protection they offer. "And perhaps a warm place for my companions to pray before we continue to our destination." Her eyes meet his, and in that moment, she sees the flicker of something beyond fear—curiosity?. Gratitude? The desperate hope that someone, anyone, might actually help?

She needs information about this town, about what happened here, about why the church stands abandoned like a broken tooth in the sky. And people, when they're afraid and alone, will talk—to anyone who seems to offer something as simple as human connection. Jeane smiles, a small, genuine expression that softens her severe features just enough. "My name is Jeane," she says softly. "And we mean no harm to you or yours."

The rain continues its relentless percussion, the wind its mournful song. But for this moment, in the shelter of the doorway, there is a chance—a slim thread of possibility—that trust might be built between strangers in a dying world.