Round 10 Transcript

I crouch low, pressing my palm flat against the floorboards where they're creaking loudest. Wood tells more truths than stone—especially when it's trying to tell you there's a very pissed-off something clawing up from underneath. The grain shifts beneath my fingers like living muscle.

The rope goes taut with an ominous groan, and I yank my hand back instinctively. Whatever this is, it's got purchase now. I glance at the lantern light flickering across Sister Hale's tense face and Jeane calculating something behind her. We've got two seconds to decide—do we let it break through here in the open where we can see it, or do we scatter like rats and hope it follows us down some dark corridor instead? Without waiting for an answer I'm already moving, drawing my blade and wedging it between boards near the edge of the shifting section. If this bitch is coming up, she's doing it piece by piece. The wood splinters under the pressure as I lean all my weight onto the blade.

Jeane Cromwell's eyes narrow as she stares at where the floorboards shift. If whatever sleeps here was just a restless ghost, we wouldn't hear creaking wood—we'd hear whispers in our minds or cold spots moving across the room. She steps closer to the edge, despite her better judgment. The pattern of this movement is deliberate. It's testing the structure above it, learning the weight distribution of each floorboard. Her voice drops lower as she focuses. It's not just reacting—it's thinking. That changes the nature of what we're dealing with. To Silra and Hale: Stand back near the wall. Whatever this is, it knows we're here now for certain. We need to establish dominance before it decides we're trespassers in its domain. Jeane pulls a small bottle from her belt—a dark liquid that seems to absorb light. I'm going to drip this consecrated bile along the edges of the floor—if something climbs up, it'll mark their path with profanity. She carefully uncorks the bottle, then kneels near the wall. If what's underneath us is bound by old magic or a forgotten curse, this should make it visible—or at least uncomfortable enough to pause its climbing. She begins dripping the thick liquid in a slow circle around the perimeter of the room. It burns when applied to consecrated flesh—let's see if it can tell the difference between blessed stone and whatever unholy hide is beneath us. The liquid hisses as it touches the floorboards, smoking slightly. The scent of brimstone fills the air. Ready yourselves. If this doesn't work, we're dealing with something that laughs at holy symbols and profane oils alike—something older than any church in Gravehill should have been able to build over. Jeane finishes her circle just as the floorboards near the center give a particularly loud groan. It's coming faster now. The smell of the oil has angered it—or attracted its attention. Either way, we're out of time for subtle approaches.