Round 2 Transcript

Jeane Cromwell steps forward onto the cracked road with the measured grace of one who knows her power but trusts only steel and shadow. The air here is wrong—too still, too thick with the memory of screams. This place festers, she mutters to the two women behind her. Keep your blades sharp and your wits sharper. Her hand rests on the hilt of a dagger concealed beneath her cloak, fingers tracing the unholy symbol that hangs heavy against her chest like an anchor in dark waters. Something moves under our feet—too many somethings. She crouches briefly, pressing her palm to the ground. The stone trembles faintly. Silra, Jeane calls out without turning around, her voice cutting through the oppressive silence. What do you hear that shouldn't be there?

The elf moves like a ghost, circling the perimeter with predatory silence, her eyes scanning every shadow. She returns moments later, face pale even beneath the ash-gray pallor of the sky. The sewers below are still active somehow,she reports softly. Water running where there should be none. And breathing—low and rhythmic, like something waiting.

Then it's waiting no longer, Jeane decides coldly. Sister Hale, a ward against unseen eyes. The cleric nods, already reaching for her holy symbol. And you, Silra—find us the quickest route to that church without crossing open ground.

She turns back to face the city proper, her gaze fixed on the crumbling spire of what was once a grand cathedral. We have work to do here. The weight of the unholy symbol against her chest feels like an accusation as she steps forward, leading them deeper into the ruins.

I look up at the city looming ahead, the wind carrying a fine grit that scratches at my exposed skin. Gravedigger's warning about 'something moving beneath' crawls under my ribs like a cockroach in the dark—I don't trust anything in this place. I draw my dagger and kneel by the roadside, pressing the blade into a crack. Listen, you three. The ground sounds... wrong. It hums. Like old bones rattling together. We're walking onto a corpse here, and I want to know if it's already screaming before we get our feet wet. The wind picks up, carrying the stench of rot stronger now—a thick, sweet reek that makes my stomach turn. If this thing under us is loud enough for me to hear through three feet of stone and dirt, then Gravedigger wasn't just being paranoid. That means the whole city might be listening already. I stand, dusting off my knees. So here's our first test: I'm going to throw that rusty key from the magistrate we looted. If it lands without shattering something glass or breaking open a hole that wasn't there before—if nothing in this godforsaken road gives us a clue about what's beneath—I'll eat my boots. I weigh the heavy iron key in my palm. Here goes. I hurl it with all my strength down the center of the road toward the city gates.

The key sails through the ash-laden air, spinning end over end.

I step forward, my boots crunching on the ash-strewn ground. The air here feels wrong, heavy with more than just smoke and decay—there's a presence, a malevolent weight that presses against my skin. "We should not linger," I say, voice low but firm. "The road ahead is treacherous, and Gravedigger Renn's words weigh heavily." I glance at the elf beside me, her keen eyes scanning the ruined buildings with unnerving focus. "Silra, can you see or sense anything amiss? Any traps or signs of recent passage?"

As she moves to investigate, I turn to face Jeane, meeting her cold gaze directly. "And as for you, sorceress—I will not forget your words about using this city's misfortune for our own gain. There are lines even a cleric of Lolth must not cross."

I reach into my pack and pull out the rusted iron key we took from the dead magistrate—a symbol of authority in this forsaken place, perhaps. "This key may open doors we need to pass. But remember why we're here: to rebuild, to help, not to exploit."