Round 3

As the city guard stepped into view, his dented armor and narrowed eyes commanded attention under the storm-dark sky. His rusted sword glinted faintly in the dim light, and he raised a hand, palm outward, demanding the party's identity before advancing on them. Jeane Cromwell stepped forward, placing herself between the guard and her companions as naturally as breathing, her fingers curled around the hilt of her dagger but kept sheathed for now.

The feeling of that thing stirring beneath the streets had her nerves singing a sharp tune, and she spoke with smooth silk over rusted iron, "Easy there, constable." Her words were laced with a hint of warning, a subtle reminder that they meant no harm. Silra watched the guard warily, her eyes narrowing as she took in his tattered armor and the way he clutched his sword like it would keep him alive when whatever lurked beneath their feet decided to rise up.

Silra's gaze flicked to Jeane, then back to the guard, her voice dry as the air before a storm broke. "You look lost, officer," she said, her words dripping with skepticism. She slipped her hand into her cloak, fingers closing around the old magistrate's key – one with teeth like a viper's bite – and waited for the guard's response.