Round 10 Transcript

Silra leans into the darkness below, her rogue's eyes scanning every shadow for movement. Well, this is cozy—an uninvited tour of some ancient architect's nightmares. She pulls a length of rope from her pack with practiced ease. If whatever made these stairs is still playing host down there, I'd rather not be trapped on the menu. With a swift, fluid motion, Silra anchors one end of the rope to a sturdy-looking stone outcropping at the edge of the stairwell and tosses the other end down into the darkness below. A safety line—that's my kind of prayer. She glances at Sister Hale's resolute descent. Your pious courage is admirable, but if this ends in us being entombed alive for some forgotten sin tax, I'll be very cross indeed. Silra's hand hovers near her rapier, ready to draw at the slightest sign of threat as she begins her own careful descent. The stone underfoot feels unstable, and dust shifts with every step. So, what do we call this little excursion—'The Descent Into Reasonable Doubt,' or just 'Fool's Errand: Act One'? Her voice echoes softly in the gloom, a deliberate attempt to gauge acoustics as much as to make light of their situation.

Halfway down, her keen eyes catch something—a glint of metal on the wall at an odd angle. Now that looks less like 'ancient architecture' and more like 'someone didn't want us coming this way.' She crouches closer, producing a small tool to pry it loose carefully. Let's see what kind of booby trap we're dealing with before our resident optimist down there triggers the surprise finale.

Hale descends into the darkness, her hand gripping the unholy symbol at her neck—a talisman of sin as much as salvation in this place. I see it too clearly now: we are not trespassing here—this city invited us. She turns to Silra and Jeane, her voice steady despite the chill that seems to seep from the stone itself.

We came for a cathedral, but the darkness below offers something else—a deeper connection to this place, to its hunger. I won't let you both walk into a trap while I play martyr. We face whatever lies ahead together or not at all. She pulls out her own length of rope with sudden purpose. Tie us fast—if one falls, the others can hold. And if we're meant for sacrifice... then may it be to something worthier than decaying stone and forgotten traps. Her fingers work the rope knot with practiced efficiency while her eyes remain fixed on the descending stairway—awaiting whatever ancient thing stirs in the depths below.