Round 7 Transcript

I crouch low by the church wall, sweeping my hand along the ground like a blind woman reading braille. The grit of ash and stone tells me what eyes can't see in this poor light. "Fresh footprints," I mutter to nobody in particular. "Not ours—someone else has been here since last rainfall." Three sets, maybe four if that one's just a partial. And something heavy dragged across the path toward the doors—the scrape marks are wide and deep. Whatever made those tracks wasn't walking on two legs. I straighten up, dusting off my hands with a grimace of distaste for this whole situation. "So our informant's intel was solid enough to get us here, but now we've got unexpected guests or patrols. Either the city guard is stupider than I gave them credit for and wants to tussle in a cursed church at night, or someone else has business with abandoned property." My eyes narrow as I scan the shadows pooling around the building's foundation. "Or maybe both."

I glance back at Jeane and Hale, then let my gaze linger on the heavy doors themselves. The rusted ironwork tells me they're old but well-constructed—someone wanted to keep whatever was inside from getting out. Or keep something specific in. "These hinges are newer than the door frame," I say, circling one with a fingertip. "Recent repair work—that means maintenance or a resident." I pull my dagger and test the lock mechanism with its tip, listening for tells that don't come through sight alone. The tumblers inside shift with oiled precision despite their age—a professional job. "We could pick it," I offer casually to Hale, already withdrawing thin tools from within my coat lining. "Or I could create a distraction and we slip in while the noise draws whatever's lurking." My lips curl into something that might be amusement or contempt—I'm not sure which yet. "Unless you two want to knock politely and ask if anyone's home?"

Sister Hale steps closer to Silra, her eyes following the elf's sweeping hand across the ground. Four sets of prints? she asks, voice low enough not to carry beyond their small circle. The lantern light catches the fine lines around her eyes, carved there by too many nights praying for guidance in a world that seems determined to abandon faith. We were told this place was abandoned—empty and waiting. She glances back at the looming church doors, then to Jeane. Our friend Renn seemed sincere enough in his fear, but sincerity and truth are not always the same coin. Her hand tightens around her unholy symbol, a rusted iron disc that's seen better days.

We go forward with caution, yes, but also with purpose. This church may yet serve a higher calling than whatever shadows lurk within it—a flicker of something harder passes across her face—and if those who tread here now are enemies of that calling, then so be it. Sister Hale moves toward the footprints Silra pointed out, kneeling to examine them more closely in the fading light. These aren't days old, she murmurs. The ground's disturbed too freshly for that. She straightens, her tired muscles protesting but years of hardship having taught her to ignore such complaints.

We have two choices: approach as if we expect enemies, or proceed under the assumption this is some misdirection and walk into whatever trap might await us. Her eyes meet Silra's, then Jeane's. I prefer the former. It leaves less room for surprises. Sister Hale retrieves a length of rope from her pack with practiced efficiency despite her fatigue. We tie off here—if something goes wrong inside, we have a line to pull back to safety. She begins securing one end around a sturdy piece of stonework near the door. And we move in formation. Jeane at point with your light and magic ready; Silra watching our flanks; I'll take rear guard. As she works the rope, her voice takes on an edge that cuts through the gloom. Whatever awaits us within—guards, cultists, or worse—I would rather face it together than stumble alone into darkness.

Jeane crouches by Silra's side, her fingers brushing over the disturbed earth where fresh footprints break the crust of ash. Four sets? She muses aloud, her voice a low purr that doesn't quite mask the tension beneath. Curiouser and curiouser. Her eyes scan the shadows cast by the dying light, searching for movement.

Drawing a slow circle in the grit with one finger, she speaks again, more to herself than to the others. If these tracks belonged to city guard, they'd have shown themselves by now—no point in skulking around a place like this when you hold the authority. She straightens, her cloak settling around shoulders dusted gray from the road. Which leaves us with… what? Other explorers? Vagrants seeking shelter? Or something more interesting. Sister Hale steps closer, her lantern held high, casting grotesque shadows on the ancient stone. What do you suggest we do, then? Press on into darkness or wait for dawn? There's a note of barely concealed apprehension in her voice, a wariness that grates against Jeane's instincts.

Jeane's lips curve into something between a smirk and a snarl. She turns to face Sister Hale fully, her unholy symbol glinting dully at her throat. I suggest we seize this opportunity, sister. If whoever left these tracks is still here—hidden in the ruins—I want to know who they are and what they seek. She draws her sorcerer's focus from its hidden pocket—a twisted length of bone and shadow. Knowledge is power, after all. With a swift, fluid motion, Jeane extends her hand toward the church doors, fingers splayed in a gesture of dark summoning. The air around them seems to thicken, charged with an unseen energy that raises goosebumps on exposed skin.

Darkness spills from her palm like ink dropped into water, coalescing into a swirling mass that takes shape—a spectral hound, all shadow and glinting eyes. Seek within, Jeane commands, her voice carrying the weight of compulsion, find those who tread these halls before us. Mark them but do not harm—return to me with their scent. The summoned creature melts into the cracks between stones, slipping through the doors like smoke through a sieve. Jeane watches it vanish, a look of cold satisfaction on her features. Let's see if our mysterious guests are as eager for company as I am, shall we? Jeane attempts to summon a spectral scout (dark vision, stealth) to locate and identify any hidden occupants within the church ruins.