Round 1 Transcript

Jeane squinted at Gravedigger Renn's back as he scuttled away into the storm-tossed streets. Her voice carried contempt without needing to shout: "Cowardice is unbecoming in one who calls himself a man." The ashfall stung her eyes, but she stood her ground. The lantern Silra held cast flickering shadows across the ruined buildings—opportunities for ambushes as numerous as gravestones. Jeane's unholy symbol felt heavy against her skin, an anchor to power in this blighted place. She drew a slow breath, calculating odds and angles. "Sister Hale," she called, her tone sharp and commanding, "take the center of the road where you can see threats approach from all sides. Silra, use your skills to scout our flanks—we need eyes on anything that moves before it decides to attack." She paused, letting the orders settle. Then came the strategic move:

Jeane pressed her palms flat against the cold cobbles of the street and closed her eyes. A low hum vibrated through her teeth as she cast Detect Magic—the spell's radius would cover a few dozen feet beneath them first. If something ancient lurked below, she wanted to know what kind of power it might wield before they walked over its grave.

Silra watched Gravedigger Renn vanish into the storm-veiled streets and snorted softly. "His kind always runs first—it's their primary skill." The ashfall stung her eyes; she pulled up her hood, then moved to stand beside Jeane, holding the lantern high. "I saw what he didn't say," Silra said, her tone dry. "That wasn't fear of us. That was fear of something else in those ruins. Something old and probably hungry." She turned to Sister Hale. "Did you catch his reaction when I mentioned the church basement? He looked like a man who'd just remembered he forgot to pay his taxes to the devil."

Silra crouched, running gloved fingers along the cobblestones where they met the building's foundation. Her perception was sharp, seeking tells—cracks that were too deliberate, stones that fit too well. "We're not rebuilding a church here," she muttered. "We're opening a tomb. And I don't mean metaphorically."

She found what she was looking for: a stone slightly off-color, an iron ring set into it, old and covered in rust but functional. Silra drew her small dagger and scraped away the corrosion around the ring's edges with careful precision. "This is our way down," she said flatly to the others. "And I'm willing to bet the key we took from that dead magistrate fits this lock." She looked up at them, her expression unreadable in the shifting lantern light. "Questions before I open it? Because once we're below ground, our options become a lot more limited."

She waited for their responses, dagger held ready but not moving, hand on the rusted iron ring—the threshold to whatever lay beneath Gravehill's skin. # I'm testing if the rusted key from the dead magistrate fits this lock, which is clearly an entrance mechanism. If it doesn't fit (or if it breaks), that's useful information for my next move.

I watched that Gravedigger scramble away and felt only contempt for his weakness. "A man who fears his own city's shadow is no man at all," I said firmly. The storm howled around us, ash stinging my skin through the habit. Jeane spat beside me. "What did he really mean? That there’s something down there—something moving?" Silra held up the lantern; its flickering light made her face look gaunt and severe in the shadows. "He meant we’re not alone," I said, my voice measured despite the dread settling cold in my gut. The unholy symbol felt heavy against my chest. "The streets have eyes."