Round 8 Transcript

I approach the church doors with a confidence that feels earned despite the grit in my teeth and ash in every breath. The air inside this place tastes of dust and something else—something ancient and wrong. "Sister," I say, turning to meet her wary eyes, "our informant didn't lead us astray out of malice." My voice is steady, a sorceress who has tasted darker things than mere decay. Silra crouches low by the church wall, sweeping her 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," she mutters to nobody in particular. "Not ours—someone else has been here since last rainfall." Three sets, maybe four. I crouch by Silra's side, my fingers brushing over the disturbed earth where fresh footprints break the crust of ash. Four sets? I muse aloud, my voice a low purr that doesn't quite mask the tension beneath. Curiouser and curiouser. My eyes scan the shadows cast by the dying light, searching for movement.

Suddenly I catch it—a flicker in the upper window, too fast to be just wind or settling stone. Someone's up there. I rise smoothly, my hand already moving toward my unholy symbol. We're not alone. 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 to have none left to give. I turn my back on them both, facing the church doors. We came here with purpose—rebuild this house of faith, start something new in this cursed city. My voice carries authority despite the chill that slithers down my spine. That purpose hasn't changed just because ghosts or thieves decided to make it their lair too. I grasp the rusted iron ring of the church door and pull. The wood groans in protest, but yields with surprising ease—the hinges weren't as rusted as I thought. Cold air rushes out like a sigh of relief. Let's see who's been playing housekeeper here. The sound of that opening door echoes through the empty church, and for a moment everything is still.

Sister Hale moves to stand between Jeane and the church doors, her hand resting on the hilt of a small mace at her belt. Wait, she says, her voice firm despite the weariness in her eyes. We came here for purpose, not for ghosts or whoever left those footprints. She meets Silra's gaze first, then turns to Jeane with something harder in her expression.

That informant—Renn, was it?—gave us this key and directions. But he also told us the church was empty, haunted only by rats and memories. And now you're saying there are fresh prints? She glances at the dark doorway behind them. I don't believe in coincidences, especially not when we're carrying secrets that could get us hanged if the city guard catches wind of them. Drawing a deep breath, Sister Hale kneels to examine the footprints Silra pointed out. Her fingers trace their edges carefully, feeling the texture of the disturbed earth. These aren't from travelers passing through, she mutters, more to herself than anyone else. The tread is too... deliberate. Purposeful. She straightens then, turning back to face her companions with a serious expression.

We need to know what's going on before we walk into that church blind. Silra, can you track these prints? See where they lead? And Jeane—her tone softens slightly—I appreciate your confidence, but we're all tired and jumpy. Let's not rush in until we have all the information we can get. Sister Hale pulls out her unholy symbol, letting its dark surface catch what little light remains. Whatever happens next, it happens on our terms. We face whatever's in that church together—and only after we know exactly who else has been poking around this place recently.

Silra crouches low, her fingers tracing the edges of the footprints in the ash. Four sets, she confirms, voice barely a murmur above the wind's moan. Two pairs came this way recently—see how the ash is disturbed but not fully scattered? She glances up at Jeane and Sister Hale, her grey eyes sharp despite the encroaching gloom.

Something walked here on two legs, something that didn't want its passage known. Her gaze drifts to the looming church. And I'd bet my best lockpick those prints lead right through our new front door. She stands with a fluid grace born of years spent moving unseen in dark places, and steps closer to Sister Hale. We're not here for ghosts or old bones, you said. But someone's been tending this place—maintaining the locks, keeping the interior clear. Silra pulls out her rusted key, letting it catch what little light remains. This wasn't just a forgotten key in some bureaucrat's desk drawer. It was used. She turns to Jeane, a dry smirk tugging at one corner of her mouth. Our 'frightened informant' may have been more informed than he let on. Or less... alone. Silra moves toward the church doors, drawing her rapier with a soft hiss of steel. I'm going in first—someone needs to check if our hosts are friendly. You two cover my back, and keep those lanterns low. If something shifts that shouldn't, I want to see it before it sees me. She slips the key into the lock—a perfect fit—and turns it with agonizing slowness. Let's find out who's been having church meetings in the dark, shall we?