Round 1 Transcript

The road outside Gravehill curls through ash‑streaked earth, its surface cracked by centuries of neglect. A low, storm‑dark sky hangs heavy above, clouds swirling like restless spirits. The ruined church looms ahead, its stone walls half buried in soot and broken masonry, a shattered bell tower silhouetted against the gloom. An old city gate, rusted and half collapsed, blocks the main approach, its iron hinges creaking in the wind. A faint glow flickers from a lantern held by a lone figure—Gravedigger Renn—who stands near the gate, eyes darting toward the approaching party. The air smells of damp stone and distant decay, and the road’s uneven stones echo each footfall.

Jeane Cromwell strides through the ash, her robes whispering against the broken stones. Gravedigger Renn looks up at our approach—his face is gaunt, his hands shaking even as he holds the lantern high. The lantern casts long shadows across the ruined gate, making the cracked stone seem to writhe with hidden movement. The air tastes of decay and something older, like dust from opened tombs. Digger, you look like a man who's seen a ghost, she says coolly. Her eyes are narrowed, calculating. Was it just the memory of what happened here, or did you invite more company? She moves closer, her boots leaving precise prints in the ash. Speak plainly now. The city guard isn't our only concern—old cities have teeth of their own. And I don't intend to stumble into whatever trap your fear conjured up. She glances at Silra and Hale. Sisters, keep watch on the road flanks. We need to know if we're being followed before we step through this gate. To Renn: You said the church's cellar is untouched. I need to see for myself what lies beneath those stones before we start rebuilding. Her hand rests casually near her staff. So tell me—what else lurks in Gravehill that wasn't in your little tale?

Silra steps across the cracked stone with practiced lightness, her eyes already scanning the gate structure for weaknesses—as well as what might be lurking behind it. Renn's nervous shuffle is about as subtle as a charging bull; this informant needs to learn discretion or he'll get himself killed long before we can put him to use. I approach close enough to see the sweat gleaming on his forehead, despite the chill air. Lantern's pretty for your date here, Gravedigger Renn. But it also makes you a perfect target for anything with eyes in this ash pit. I glance meaningfully at the shadows clinging to the gate's iron frame. If you've got something useful to say before we all become excellent archery practice for whatever passes as city guard these days, spit it out. With my free hand I casually trace one of the rusted hinge pins—checking its integrity, yes, but also making sure he knows I'm assessing every aspect of this setup.

Sister Hale steps through the ash with the measured pace of one who has seen too much already. The road's cracked stones shift under her worn boots; she notes the way they grind together like old bones. Gravedigger Renn—poor, frightened soul that he is—looks up as they approach. His lantern trembles in his grasp, throwing shadows that writhe across the ruined gate like restless spirits. He shifts his weight from foot to foot, a nervous tic that speaks volumes about what awaits them inside Gravehill. Sister Hale's gaze sweeps over the crumbling church ahead, then returns to Renn. "Enough stalling," she says, her voice carrying the authority of someone who has held faith in the face of horror before. "Tell us plainly: what manner of danger lies within those walls?"

She moves closer to him—not threatening, but neither does she accept his fear as an answer. Her hand rests near the unholy symbol at her belt, a silent promise that she is ready for whatever darkness might lurk among the tombs. I will have the truth from this man before we proceed further, Sister Hale thinks. The lives of my companions may depend on it.