Round 3 Transcript

I grip my unholy symbol tightly, its cold weight a reminder of what we face here. This place feels wrong — ancient and hungry. The road ahead is cracked like a shattered mirror showing hell's reflection. The storm overhead groans like a beast waking from slumber. I don't trust this quiet. It's the kind that precedes screaming. Silra, check those gateposts for mechanisms. Hale, watch our backs. Something watches us from the shadows between buildings, I can feel it scratching at my thoughts. I draw power through the symbol, letting its dark energy course through me like poisoned wine. If anything moves, I want to know before it gets close enough to bite. This city died for a reason, and I intend to find out what that reason is — then use it.

I press my dagger into the cracked earth at the roadside. The stone is old and brittle, but it doesn't give way easily—good sign for no recent traps. Old city architecture usually has pressure plates under major entrances. I shift my weight, testing wider areas around the gatepost. Looks clear here, but that doesn't mean we're not being watched, I call out to Jeane and Sister Hale behind me. The wind picks up, carrying more of that stench—death and something else, oily and wrong. That smell is getting worse. I cover my nose with the back of my hand. The gate itself is a problem. Heavy iron, rusted shut for years except for one hinge that shows recent use—a few scratch marks where someone forced it open recently. Probably Gravedigger Renn when he ran off after his friends disappeared. Smart man, stupid mistake.

Sister Hale, come here and check the stonework around this hinge—look for sigils or wards that might trigger if we force it open too hard. I stand up, keeping my back to the wall as I scan the rooftops across from us. There's movement. Just a shadow shifting in an abandoned window? Or something else? Jeane, you see anything moving up there on your side? Left side of that second building—was that door always open like that? My hand tightens around my dagger hilt.

I look up at the city looming ahead, its silhouette cut against the storm-dark sky like a sickle poised to strike. The wind carries more than grit—it carries the stench of decay and something else, something old and hungry that makes my skin crawl. "Gravedigger's fear was no mere superstition," I mutter, fingers tightening around my unholy symbol. "This place reeks of wrongness." Jeane stands a few paces away, her posture tense, ready to unleash whatever dark magics she commands at the first sign of threat. Silra works methodically at the gatepost—a professional doing what she does best. "We should move swiftly," I say, my voice barely above the wind's moan. "The longer we linger here, exposed on this road…" I let the thought hang unfinished, heavy with implication. The idea that something moves beneath us is more than a story now—it's a possibility that gnaws at the edges of reason. I take a step forward, then stop. My eyes catch movement near the base of the stone wall to our left—a flicker too quick to be certain. I squint through the ash-laden air, trying to discern what my eyes just glimpsed. Was it shadow playing tricks? Or something more… animate? "Jeane," I say sharply, "do you see movement near the city wall?" My hand moves instinctively towards my mace, not yet drawing it but ready to. The hair on the back of my neck stands up—a primal warning that has nothing to do with faith and everything to do with survival instinct. I step forward again, positioning myself between Silra—kneeling and vulnerable at the gate—and whatever might be lurking near the wall. My grip tightens on the mace as I watch the spot where I saw movement. If it's a threat, I mean to face it directly before it can threaten my companions. "I will not let us walk into an ambush," I declare, voice steady despite the cold dread that coils in my gut. "If something hunts here… we hunt it first."