Round 1 Transcript

The ash-choked road outside Gravehill's ruined city stretched before them, shrouded in an ominous twilight. The storm-dark sky hung heavy with foreboding, its clouds boiling like churning black water. A lone lantern cast flickering shadows on the ground, its light struggling to pierce the gloom. To their left, the entrance of the abandoned church loomed, a dark and foreboding presence that seemed to draw them in despite the danger. The air was heavy with the stench of decay and death, and the silence was oppressive, broken only by the distant howling of wolves. A rusted key from a dead magistrate hung at Jeane's belt, its presence a reminder of the uncertain path ahead.

I push through the gritty wind toward the church entrance. Abandoned for decades… but power lingers here, thick and ripe. My unholy symbol pulses faintly against my skin. 'Silra, scout the perimeter—find any watch points or guard patrols. Hale, keep that light up and ready to move inside.' I draw the rusted key from my belt. The metal is cold, but it fits perfectly in my palm. 'I'm going to open this door. Everyone stay close.'

I insert the key into the ancient lock. It scrapes audibly at first, then slides home with a satisfying click. The mechanism is still functional after all this time. I turn it slowly—the gears grind, protesting years of disuse—and the heavy wooden barrier swings inward with a groan. Inside: shadows and dust motes dancing in the lantern light. The air smells of damp stone and decaying wood. But there's something else… faint perfume, aged but still present. 'The sex cult really did worship here once,' I mutter. 'Recent too.'

'What do you mean?' Silra asks sharply. I gesture toward a side chamber where faint stains mark the floor. 'Blood and bodily fluids don't just disappear over decades—they soak into stone.' And someone has been maintaining this place. My gut twists with anticipation and something like hunger.

I circle the church's facade with that predatory grace that makes people nervous—good. The stone is cold and unforgiving under my fingers as I trace the mortar lines, looking for gaps, listening through the walls. This place has eyes. I can feel them. 'Jeane, your magistrate's key is probably useless; these locks haven't seen oil in decades.' I test a rusted iron latch with a gloved hand—it barely moves before grinding to a halt. 'But good thinking, bringing a dead man's permission slip.'

The lantern light from the road catches Hale's nervous posture and Jeane's impatient energy. Three women alone at night outside a cursed city. A lovely target package if the wrong things are watching. I gesture for them to stay back as I crouch low near the foundation, running my hands along the ancient stonework. The stone feels… wrong. Pulsing faintly under my touch like a sick heartbeat. 'There's something down here—old workings sealed up tight. Probably best left that way.'

I produce thin wire from within my coat with practiced ease and begin to probe at the gaps between stones, searching for any weak point or hidden mechanism. Find the back door before someone finds us.

I lift the lantern higher, its weak flame guttering in the ash-heavy wind. 'Wait.' My voice cuts through Jeane's orders with a sharp edge that surprises even me. This isn't some tomb raider's treasure hunt; this is consecrated ground, profaned by time and neglect. The stonework is pitted and stained. I trace the symbol of the old faith above the door—a faded carving worn smooth by weather and perhaps more intentional erasure. My unholy symbol grows warm against my breastbone, not with comfort but warning. 'We don't just barge in like we own the place.' I fix Jeane with a hard look. 'There's a ritual to reclaimed ground, especially when it's been… defiled.'

I step forward and take out my holy symbol, pressing it against the doorframe. The metal feels wrong—cold where it should be warm, smooth where it should be roughened by prayer and use. A faint tremor runs through me that has nothing to do with the wind. 'Silra's right about the key likely being useless.' I begin a slow circuit of the facade myself, searching for signs of recent entry or wardings. 'But there might be other ways in—hidden passages, forgotten doors—that a casual inspection would miss.'

My hand brushes something slick under the peeling paint—a residue that feels wrong on my fingers. Blood, old and consecrated. 'This wasn't just abandoned.' I scrape it off onto a clean spot of stone. 'Something drove them out—something they bled to appease.'