Round 1 Transcript

The ash-choked road outside the ruined city of Gravehill stretches before the trio, its cracked and barren surface reflecting the sickly yellow glow of the storm-dark sky. The air is heavy with the acrid scent of smoke and decay, carried on the wind that stirs the skeletal remains of trees. To the left, a weathered stone wall marks the edge of the city, its crumbling facade punctuated by the occasional shattered window or rusting iron beam. Beyond the wall, the ruins of Gravehill loom like a specter, their twisted spires and turrets reaching towards the sky like grasping fingers. The trio stands at the entrance to this desolate thoroughfare, their footsteps echoing off the stone as they approach the abandoned church that lies within the city's heart. The church's once-majestic facade now hangs in tatters, its stained glass windows shattered, and its wooden doors hanging crookedly on rusted hinges. A single lantern, hung from a nearby beam, casts flickering shadows across the ground, casting an eerie glow over the scene. To their right, a weathered stone bench sits empty, its surface scarred by the relentless passage of time. The air is heavy with tension, and the silence is oppressive, punctuated only by the distant howling of wolves and the creaking of twisted metal in the wind.

Jeane surveyed the road ahead with cold eyes, her unholy symbol hanging heavy against her chest like a blackened heart. The air tasted of ash and decay, a familiar perfume that stirred something ancient within her. Sister Hale, she said, voice carrying an edge sharp as obsidian, keep your faith close. This city has seen too much death to welcome strangers easily. Her gaze flickered to Silra, the rogue already moving with predatory grace towards the wall. And you—try not to get us all killed in the first minute.

She raised her lantern, casting long, dancing shadows across the cracked earth. The light caught on something glinting near the road's edge—a scrap of metal half-buried in ash. Jeane strode over, boots crunching on debris, and knelt to retrieve it. A rusted key, its head carved with symbols that pulsed faintly with residual magic. Interesting, she murmured, turning it over in her palm. Perhaps our luck is not entirely spent. She stood, tucking the key into a pouch at her belt. This road will have eyes upon us soon enough. Let's move before we become targets.

Jeane began walking, her pace measured and deliberate, leading them deeper into the embrace of Gravehill's ruins. The wind carried voices that weren't quite there, humming old hymns with too many syllables. She ignored them. Renn mentioned traps in the streets, she called back over her shoulder. Stay alert. I'd rather not trigger some ancient mechanism designed to flay us all.

Silra eyed Gravehill with the practiced suspicion of someone who'd seen too many supposedly abandoned towns harbor nasty surprises. The wind carried more than just ash; it smelled like old death and something else—something sharp and electric under the rot, like ozone after lightning. Renn looks ready to bolt, she thought, noting the informant's twitching hands. Useful for now, but unreliable in a real scrape. She stepped forward, boots crunching on cracked stone, her movements loose and alert, hand resting casually near the hilt of her short sword—a rogue's readiness that had kept her alive through messier situations than this. "Hold," Silra said, raising a gloved palm towards the city gate. Her gaze was on the road ahead, but her words were for Jeane and Hale. "Before we waltz into that graveyard with banners flying, let's check if our welcome's actually wanted." She pulled out the rusted key from her belt—the one she'd liberated from the dead magistrate back in the last town, its iron cool against her palm. "Renn said the old church was boarded up. Let's see if this skeleton's got a skeleton key before we announce ourselves to whatever's squatting inside." She moved towards the gatepost, her eyes scanning the stonework for signs of traps or watchful eyes—as natural as breathing, this assessment, born of a thousand close calls and narrower escapes. With a flick of her wrist, Silra slid the key into a hidden lock in the gatepost—a move practiced from countless locked doors and forbidden chests. She gave it a sharp turn. The mechanism caught, then clicked—a sound barely audible over the wind, but enough to make her lips curve with cold satisfaction. "Open sesame," she muttered dryly, pushing the gate inward just enough for them to slip through without leaving the road fully exposed. "Let's keep this quiet until we know what's waiting."

I draw my symbol out, feeling the weight of its dark blessing against my palm, and turn to face Gravedigger Renn where he shivers beside us. Renn, I said, voice firm despite the dread pooling cold in my gut, you will walk with us into this city. Not because we need a guide—though your knowledge might prove useful—but so that when the inevitable moment comes for you to break and run, you'll be close enough for us to catch you before you alert whatever waits ahead. I grasp his shoulder, fingers digging in hard enough to make my point clear through the layers of fear and grime. My eyes lock with his, steady and unyielding despite the way the wind howls like a pack of wolves around us. You'll stay because you understand this: if we succeed in what we've come here for, Gravehill will be a very different place when next you see it. And I would hate to think of someone as... useful as yourself being left behind to regret his cowardice. I don't wait for an answer. Instead, I move forward, stepping onto the cracked and ash-choked road with purpose despite the way my insides twist with uncertainty. The lantern in my other hand casts a weak circle of light against the encroaching shadows that seem to deepen with each step we take towards Gravehill's ruined gates. Come along, sisters, I call over my shoulder, voice carrying more confidence than I entirely feel. We have work to do, and night falls early in places like this. I set a brisk pace, eyes scanning the crumbling walls and empty windows for any sign of movement while keeping Renn close enough that I can see his face—read his fear, predict his breaking point so I'm ready when it comes. This is how we begin: together, watchful, moving forward even as the city's corruption seems to seep into the very air we breathe. The lantern flame flickers unsteadily as if even fire struggles against this place's oppressive atmosphere. My symbol feels heavy in my hand, less a source of comfort and more like an anchor tethering me to realities I'd rather not confront tonight.