Round 3 Transcript

I move toward the church entrance, boots crunching on gravel. The air tastes wrong—old blood and stale incense clinging to everything. That stonework feels like it's watching me, and I can sense eyes on us from the shadows. But that pulse from my symbol is unmistakable: magic, thick and sleeping here. 'Silra.' My voice cuts through the oppressive quiet. 'If there's a trap, I want to know before we trigger it. Hale—keep that light steady. We need to see what we're dealing with.'

I approach the heavy oak doors, hand resting on my symbol for reassurance, and press an ear against the cold wood. Someone or something drove them out of here—that much is clear from the atmosphere. But whatever happened, it left power behind. My fingers trace a ward carved into the stone arch above the entrance—fresh work, recently done.

'This isn't abandoned,' I mutter to myself, more observation than statement. 'This is... vacated. Purposefully cleared.' The key from the magistrate weighs heavy on my belt as I reach for it. I insert the rusted iron into the lock with careful precision, feeling out the tumblers. If this opens—good. If not, we know someone sealed this place deliberately. The mechanism catches, then turns with a grinding squeal that echoes ominously in the gloom.

The doors inch open, revealing a vast interior space choked with darkness and shadow. Right. Of course it opens. Now we just have to figure out what opened it last.

I crouch low, pressing my ear against the stone lintel while my fingers trace the joinery with a thief's intimacy. The stonework here isn't just old—it' been sealed. See how the mortar lines are too perfect? This wasn't neglect; this was deliberate closing. Whatever drove them out didn't want anyone getting back in. My eyes track the perimeter, noting the missing gargoyles—they've been removed with careful cuts, not broken violence. Someone cleaned house here, and they left no witnesses. I stand, brushing dust from my gloves. The gravedigger said 'something' bled to appease it—if we're dealing with a sex cult that pissed off whatever was downstairs enough for them to start offering blood sacrifices, I'd like to know what kind of payment plan we're looking at before I start renovations. I produce the rusted key from my belt. If this thing still works, great—that gets us inside without breaking and entering. But if it doesn't, we need a backup plan that doesn't involve me picking locks while Hale prays for divine cover fire. My gaze flicks to Jeane. You said you could sense magic—what kind? Dark, neutral, or just really old sex juice from whoever worshipped here last? Without waiting for an answer, I approach the massive oaken doors and try the key in the lock. It slides home with a satisfying click—not jammed, not rusted shut. Well, that's either very lucky or we're being invited in. Either way, I'm opening these doors on three—Hale, get ready to flash your holy symbol at whatever greets us; Jeane, prepare an evasion spell just in case it's something that eats sorcerers for breakfast. I grip the door handle, looking back at them. One... two... On 'three,' I wrench the doors open with a creak that echoes through the empty street.

Sister Hale's hand rests on her unholy symbol, fingers tracing its cold surface. The ground under our feet—the stonework itself—it remembers. This wasn't simply abandoned; it was cleansed by violence and left sealed against what lay within. That magistrate's key may open the door, but we're not dealing with a simple squat or looters. The storm above rumbles distantly. We go in together, watch each other's backs, and trust no single source of light or perception. What drove those worshippers out wasn't the city guard—the stone tells a different story entirely. She meets Silra's eyes first, then Jeane's. I am here for the soul work, but you two are my shield and sword against the physical world. Sister Hale moves to stand before the church door, her voice low and certain. The moment we cross this threshold, we become accountable for each other's lives. I won't be a burden—you have my word—but neither will I follow blindly into folly. We test the locks first; if it's barred from within, we find another way in. This isn't about haste, but survival. She draws a deep breath. The lantern light flickers as she raises her unholy symbol, its surface catching the weak glow—an act of grounding herself before the unknown darkness ahead.* By the sacred and the profane both—I swear to witness everything you do here, and to minister to whatever consequences follow.