Round 8 Transcript

Silra’s chisel strikes the rune, and a low, resonant hum ripples through the stone. The glow flares briefly, then fades to reveal a shallow, jagged fissure opening beneath the slab, its walls slick with an oily, black substance that drips onto the rope. The crack emits a faint, cold draft that carries the metallic scent of iron and something else—an acrid, almost metallic tang that lingers in the air.

I stare at the oily black fluid dripping from the fissure onto our only secure rope. Well. My voice is dry, but my insides feel like I've swallowed cold iron. Renn—either you knew this would happen or you're even more useless than you look. I lean in close to the crack, ignoring the chill that wants to make me flinch. That smell—it's not just coal smoke. It's something old and hungry. To Jeane, over my shoulder: If your dreams were right about this place, what else did they show you? Because I'd rather know if we're walking into a furnace or a guillotine before we get our feet wet. I draw my dagger with a quiet hiss of steel. This rope's compromised. We have one shot to fix it. Without hesitation, I start sawing through the oiled section with sharp, precise cuts. Everyone be ready to pull back if that thing decides to belch up something nasty.

I step up behind Silra as she crouches at the edge of the chasm, my boots crunching on scattered gravel. You're right—this isn't mere decay down there. I gesture toward the oily darkness seeping through the cracks in the stone. That substance... it's not natural. My eyes narrow, and I feel that familiar tingle along my spine—the one that tells me power is close, even if it means danger. Renn—if you know what this is, speak now before I lose whatever shred of patience I have left. I draw a symbol in the air with my finger, and a faint purple light flickers at its tip. Because if you're lying to us... I let the threat hang there, heavy and sharp-edged. Sister Hale—keep an eye on our guest. His fear stinks worse than the air down there. Then I turn back to the fissure, my heart quickening despite the exhaustion weighing me down. This is an opportunity, not a problem. Whatever's below us... it wants out. And we're going to let it—on our terms. I crouch beside Silra and peer into the darkness, letting my unholy symbol slide from my fingers to dangle near the edge of the chasm. Time to see what secrets Gravehill has been keeping buried.

I step toward Silra with a certainty I didn't know I had left in me. Stop, Sister Hale says, and her voice cuts through the steam like a blade. She places herself between Silra and Renn—between suspicion and fear. We were given this path for a reason, even if we don't understand it yet. Her eyes are on the gleaming oily fluid now coating our rope. Gravedigger Renn, you said this place was abandoned by its builders centuries ago. You said the city guard avoids it because of old traps and superstition. She takes a single step closer to him in the gathering dark. If that's true, then what is this oil? What kind of trap releases something like this? Her hand rests on her mace, not as a threat but as an anchor—a reminder of the protection she swore to offer. Answer me plainly. Sister Hale's gaze is unwavering. And if your answer doesn't satisfy me, I'll ask again with less patience and more conviction from my gods. She's not backing down. She's holding the line, because someone has to hold it when fear wants everyone to scatter.