Round 5 Transcript

The gate's metal framework shudders violently once more, and then, with a deafening screech, it bursts open, its hinges tearing free from their ancient moorings. The sound is followed by an unearthly silence, as if the very earth itself has been torn asunder. A dark, viscous liquid begins to seep from the gap, pooling on the ground like a malevolent stain.

I step into the opening gate without hesitation—hesitation gets people killed—and the air hits my face like a fistful of ashes. Old death and something else, something hungry and cold, clings to every particle. My unholy symbol pulses with warmth against my skin; it recognizes this energy. "Silra," I call back over my shoulder, not turning around because that would be careless. "You heard the scratching. That wasn't natural decay—something's trying to dig its way out." The gate groans again, louder this time, and a fresh wave of that dark liquid seeps through at our feet. It's cold as grave dirt and it smells like failure. I don't hesitate. I draw my blade and step forward into the darkness beyond the threshold. The light from my lantern pushes back shadows that shouldn't exist, revealing walls that seem to absorb light rather than reflect it. My symbol burns against my palm—good—but this place feels wrong on a fundamental level, like reality is wearing thin in patches. "Whatever opened this gate," I say to the darkness ahead, voice steady despite the taste of copper in the back of my throat from breathing corrupted air, "it wasn't invited."

Silra eyes the dark liquid with a rogue's cynicism—it looks suspiciously like blood mixed with grave soil. Gravehill was a necromancer, not an alchemist, though I suspect his experiments went beyond raising the dead and into creating new horrors. She taps her dagger blade against one of the ancient flagstones.

That scratching wasn't random; something is down there, under our feet, trying to break through. Could be city guard rats with better digging skills than sense, could be whatever Gravehill locked away before he fell. Either way, we need to know what's coming before it arrives. She holds up the rusty key. This thing might fit something in that mess of a gate or open a cellar below us. Time for me to get under there and see who's scratching at Daddy's door. Silra drops her waterskin, pulls out fifty feet of rope from her pack, and begins tying it around her waist with expert speed. Jeane, light my path if I call for it—you've got the brightest magic here. Sister Hale, stand ready to pull me back if something grabs my ankles down there. And Renn... she glances at the frightened man ...either help or don't get in the way. But if I find a way to seal this gate properly, you're damn well going to show your gratitude by helping us rebuild that church and not running off with our supplies. The ground feels wrong under her boots—as if the stone itself is breathing slowly. Here goes nothing. She finds a gap between flagstones wide enough for her shoulders and begins to widen it with precise strikes from her dagger, revealing a dark hole leading down into darkness.

With a final push, Silra lowers herself into the blackness below, feeling the rope tighten as Jeane and Sister Hale take up slack. Got a light ready? I'm going in.