Round 8 Transcript

The stone floor shudders again, rope creaking like a hangman's noose testing weight. Something shifts beneath us—old wood groaning, stone grinding against stone. Sister Hale's unholy symbol pulses light that makes her face look gaunt and spectral. I don't think our guest downstairs is waiting for an invitation. I work the prybar harder into the seam, muscles straining, stone dust filling my nostrils. The floorboards aren't just shifting—they're trying to open. Whatever sleeps under this church? It's not asleep anymore. The iron bar scrapes deeper, revealing a hairline crack in the stonework. And I'm willing to bet whatever it is, it doesn't give two shits about our grand plan for a sex cult revival. I glance at Jeane, who looks ready to teleport herself out if needed. Unless you've got a spell that handles ancient horrors and city guard patrols simultaneously? Because I don't.

Sister Hale's palm burns against her unholy symbol as the stone beneath them shudders again. This church remembers blood—it's screaming it at me through this damned trinket! She raises the glowing artifact, its light revealing shadows that writhe like living things. Whatever sleeps below us is not sleeping anymore. We can't wait here for city guard or whatever else might crawl out of these walls. With a decisive motion, Sister Hale grips Silra's shoulder—her fingers tight with urgency—and speaks over the groaning floorboards. Stop prying that compartment. Find us something heavy—a beam, stone fragments from the crumbling wall. We need to collapse this section of the floor, seal off whatever's coming up before it reaches us. If we're buried under rubble, at least we'll be together and armed—better than waiting here for our doom to climb the stairs!