Round 8 Transcript

The air thickens with an unsettling silence as Sister Hale carefully prys at the seam with her dagger. The stone creaks softly, and a faint whisper of rusty hinges echoes through the stillness. As she presses deeper, a section of the road gives way beneath her foot, revealing a narrow, dimly lit stairway descending into darkness.

Silra pulls her hand back from the trap door's edge like it burned her. Right, because what we needed was a shortcut straight into the city's crypt system. She glares at the open entrance. This is exactly what I meant by 'old cities having teeth.' The kind that bite first and ask questions later. Her gaze flicks to Jeane—still pushing for progress, as usual—and then to Sister Hale, who looks like she's about to start praying. Silra doesn't have time for prayers or pep talks. We're not going down there blind. She produces her fifty feet of rope and secures one end around a solid-looking rock formation at the street level. I'm testing that stairway first. Alone. Before anyone can argue, she slips through the opening and descends the stairs with practiced silence. The air grows colder as she goes down—damp stone and something else, something organic. At the bottom, she finds a small chamber, partially collapsed, lit by faint greenish bioluminescent fungi growing on the walls. Well shit, she mutters to herself, it's not just old traps. It's living ones too. She listens hard for any sound of movement, her hand never leaving the dagger at her belt. After a moment, she calls up the stairs: There's a chamber down here. Probably clear—no immediate threats I can hear—but this whole place stinks like rot and old secrets. She pauses. And something else. Something that might be... food. Her voice carries back up with its usual dry tone, but there's an edge. Stay put for now. Let me scout the next passage before we all tumble into whatever passed on down here.

I look down into the darkness below, my hand still gripping the dagger. A cellar, then. Or something older—these stones aren't modern workmanship. The air from below is colder than the wind above. We can't ignore this. It could be a way to bypass the surface streets entirely and reach the cathedral district without being seen by whatever patrols remain. I turn to face Jeane directly, meeting her impatience with steady conviction.

Or it could be a death-trap, yes. But every path here is balanced on blades, sorceress—some are just sharper than others. I gesture toward the opening. Silra's right; old cities have teeth. We need to know what kind before we step into their mouth. Let me go first with the lantern and the rope. If I fall or cry out, you both back away slowly and find another route. Without waiting for approval—which I suspect she'd withhold—I lower myself onto the first stair, boots finding purchase on worn stone. My faith is stronger than any trap designed by hands long dead. And if there's something down here worth finding—some artifact or clue to why this place starved itself—I intend to find it. The light from my lantern spills down the stairs ahead of me, revealing a passage that descends at a gentle angle before disappearing around a corner. Stay close behind me. And keep your weapons ready; we don't know what might have crawled in here looking for shelter—or food.

Jeane steps forward as Silra pulls back, her boot heels clicking with authority on the cracked stone. A clever trap, indeed—clever enough for us to have detected it without stumbling in. Her eyes are unreadable as she looks down into the darkness. This is no mere cellar, Sister Hale. The city's hunger is palpable here—it wants something from below. She draws her unholy symbol from beneath her cloak, the metal cold and heavy in her palm. We cannot afford delays or caution anymore. Gravehill consumes what lingers at its edges. Her voice drops to a low purr. I will not be consumed—not by this city's greed nor by my companions' timidity. Jeane descends the first few steps into the gloom, her silhouette stark against the lantern light above. Come if you dare, or remain behind if cowardice claims you. The cathedral awaits us—with or without your company.