Round 1 Transcript

The party stands at the edge of a crumbling asphalt road, the sky above shrouded in an ominous storm cloud. The air is thick with the acrid scent of ash and smoke, carried on the wind from the ruins of Gravehill. In the distance, the silhouette of a once-grand church looms, its stone walls cracked and overgrown with vines. The entrance, a massive wooden door, hangs crookedly on rusted hinges, as if inviting or warning passersby. To their left, a weathered sign creaks in the gentle breeze, bearing the faded letters "St. Elwes' Church." Beneath it, a rusty iron railing stretches along the edge of the road, supporting a tattered awning that offers little shade from the encroaching darkness. The party can see that their 50 feet of rope is coiled neatly at Jeane's side. A faint creaking noise echoes from within the church, punctuated by the distant rumble of thunder. Something moves beneath the streets, making the ground shudder ever so slightly. The city guard is nowhere in sight, but the party can't shake off the feeling that they're being watched.

The wind carries embers past my face—I don't flinch. Gravehill smells like old bones and ash, familiar scents from the pits below. The church looms there, waiting, its very stone screaming for purpose. I step forward, unrolling the rope with a flick of my wrist—the cloth hisses through the air like a snake. The door hangs crooked, an invitation to those who understand power lies in restoration. My fingers tighten around the rusted key I took from that dead magistrate back in Hellsreach—I remember how it felt to pry it from his cold neck. The ground trembles beneath my boots—a subtle shift, like a beast stirring in its sleep. Something old sleeps under this city. Good. Old things have memory—they know who truly deserves worship. I turn to Silra and Sister Hale, their faces etched with exhaustion but their eyes sharp. "The church calls us," I say, my voice cutting through the wind. "But first—we need to ensure no unwelcome company joins our reunion." My gaze drifts toward the direction where the city guard might appear—I don't fear them, not truly, but they're an annoyance I'd sooner avoid than command. We have work to do tonight—the foundations of a new order must be laid before dawn. The unholy symbol at my throat feels warm against my skin—it hums with potential, a promise of what's to come. I don't wait for agreement—I move toward the church, each step purposeful. The lantern swings in my hand, casting long shadows that dance across crumbling walls like eager spirits. Behind me, I know they'll follow—they always do. Fear and faith are close cousins after all. The creaking from within grows louder as we approach—the wood groans, the stone sighs. The air thickens with anticipation, or maybe it's just the dust of a thousand forgotten prayers rising to greet us. I reach the door, place my palm against it—I can feel the history pulsing through the wood like a heartbeat. This church will be reborn tonight, and its first child will be our religion—a religion built on flesh and fear and the sweet taste of submission. "Open," I murmur, and the key slides home with barely any resistance at all. I don't look back—they're already filing in behind me, drawn by something they can't quite name but I've always called ambition. The door swings wide, revealing a chamber that smells of mold and potential—dark, vast, waiting for us to fill it with purpose again. This is the beginning—the first note in an opera of darkness we'll conduct together.

I circle the church's perimeter while Jeane monologues about destiny and keys that probably don't fit anymore. The stonework is ancient and crumbling—I can see where traps might have been set in less forgiving times, but centuries of neglect have rendered most of them inert. A few pressure plates near the main entrance are still functional though—Jeane almost stepped on one without realizing it. I catch her elbow before she sets it off. "Careful," I mutter, nudging my chin toward the stones beneath our feet. "Not all ghosts here are friendly."

The storm overhead is building, lightning flashing in the distance—I note that as useful cover for later, not as ominous portents. The ground's subtle tremor isn't natural geology either—something big and slow-moving shifts under Gravehill proper. Probably nothing we need to engage with immediately unless it surfaces, but worth noting. Hale looks ready to collapse from exhaustion—I don't blame her, our journey here was grueling—but I also know she won't admit weakness until her legs give out entirely. Jeane's already inside, playing at grand restoration when what we actually need is a secure base and information on current city dynamics before we start attracting attention with reconstruction projects. "Hold up," I call into the darkness within. "We don't know if the interior's stable yet—you might bring the whole thing down on us with your dramatics."

I step between Jeane and the pressure plates Silra pointed out—my hand finds her shoulder without thought. The stone beneath us feels alive in a way I wish it didn't; old magic clings to this place like cobwebs in corners. "Wait," I say, though I know Jeane's already inside, already dreaming of what we could make this into with enough will and wrongdoing. "The ground is... unsettled." The tremor Silra mentioned comes again—subtle, but definite. Something shifts deep under the city, something large enough to make grown men pray for death rather than discovery. We need rest, real rest, before we start rebuilding anything. My legs ache with a bone-deep weariness that tells me I'm pushing past what flesh can endure without consequence. But saying that aloud feels like admitting weakness when we've only just arrived at the threshold of our ambition. Instead: "The church might be structurally unsound—we don't know its condition inside." This is true, but it's also a delay tactic because the thought of climbing those stairs and standing before an altar right now makes my stomach churn. We need water, food, maybe a day to let this ash taste leave our mouths before we start performing rituals. I turn to Silra: "What do you see? Truly?" Because she sees more than I ever could—she always has. If there's a safer path inside or a better place to camp tonight, her eyes will find it where mine would only register danger and opportunity for sin. My hand still rests on Jeane's shoulder—I don't remember putting it there but now that it is, I can feel the tension in her muscles, the barely-contained energy vibrating through her like a live wire. She wants to claim this place already, to start the work of corrupting what was once holy into something we can use for our own ends. But first: survival. Then: strategy. The claiming comes after, not before we understand what exactly we're dealing with here beyond what Renn told us—which wasn't much more than fear and desperation dressed up as useful information. I take a breath: "We should scout the perimeter properly before entering—make sure there are no immediate threats." This is practical, necessary. It's also buying time for my thoughts to catch up with Jeane's certainty because right now, all I can think about is how easy it would be for this church to come down on our heads while we sleep if we're not careful. My unholy symbol feels heavy against my chest—it's been warm since we arrived in Gravehill, almost uncomfortably so. That might mean something important or it might just be the heat of my own body responding to exertion and fear. Either way, I trust Silra's judgment more than my own when it comes to seeing threats hidden in plain sight. I meet her eyes: "What do you suggest?"