Round 1

As the party emerges from the stormy darkness, their eyes adjust to the faint moonlight cast over the desolate landscape. The ash-choked road stretches out before them, a barren expanse punctuated by the occasional twisted tree or crumbling stone wall. In the distance, the silhouette of the ruined city of Gravehill looms, its crumbling spires and towers a haunting reminder of the devastation that once was.

Jeane stepped forward, her unholy symbol gleaming in the faint moonlight. The air felt charged—either blessed by ancient rites or cursed by forgotten sorrows. Gravehill's ruins loomed like skeletal remains, and the sound beneath their feet crawled against her skin. She believed this place called to her in dreams, a hunger that matched her own. A sex cult needed believers, and she sensed that the Church of the Burning Mother still stood, even if its faithful had fled.

Silra listened intently to the skittering beneath them. Gravehill's ruins had eyes, she'd felt them since they entered this ash-bowl of a road. The sign was old but unbroken, suggesting recent attention or at least recent disinterest from those who'd tear it down for firewood. She didn't trust convenient directions in places like this. The rustling underfoot sounded wrong—too many small things moving together. Rats? Possibly. Or worse. Standing exposed on a road while debating their next move was foolish.

Sister Hale drew closer to her companions, her hand resting on the hilt of her mace beneath her cloak. The air felt thick with unspoken warnings—the kind she'd learned to trust more than pleasant lies or confident boasts. That rustling sound wasn't natural. Gravehill's ruins weren't empty. Something watched them from the shadows between crumbling buildings, something that moved on many legs and carried the stench of decay beneath the ash. She could feel it in her bones—the wrongness of a place where the dead seemed to linger.