Round 8 Transcript

Silra’s blade slices the tripwire cleanly, but the bell above the altar begins to clang as a hidden pressure plate beneath the floor is triggered by the sudden shift in weight. The clang echoes through the ruined nave, drawing the attention of the city guard.

Jeane Cromwell feels the familiar pressure building behind her eyes as she begins to weave the spell-threads of Web—her fingers twitching with arcane rhythm while her gaze remains fixed on the nave entrance. The magic feels hungry today, demanding more focus than usual after the long journey. "Web," she intones sharply, and a cascade of sticky threads materializes in midair before her extended hands, forming a shimmering barrier across the main doorway—tensile, translucent, beautiful and deadly. She steps back to assess its placement: centered enough to catch anyone coming through without blocking her own escape route if needed. The spell-hunger is?.…sated for now as the webbing settles into place, looking like nothing more than dust-mantled ruin at a casual glance—a clever deception. Jeane Cromwell wipes sweat from her brow with the back of one hand while keeping the other loosely positioned near her unholy symbol—ready to channel another spell if needed. The webbing is complete: a delaying obstacle that buys time for positioning and preparation before Gravehill's guards can storm in. The sorceress moves toward the altar, eyes scanning the floorboards for further threats while trusting Silra and Sister Hale to secure their own flanks—their competence is precisely why she tolerates them accompanying her.

Silra moves swiftly to the altar, her fingers dancing across the stone surface with practiced precision. There's got to be more here than just a noisy bell—if whoever set this trap wanted to make noise, they'd have rigged the damn thing to collapse the ceiling, not ring a doorbell. Her hands slide along hidden seams and press against seemingly solid stones until one depresses with an almost inaudible click. Gotcha. The stone slab beneath her fingers begins to shift, revealing a small compartment—a dead drop or... something else entirely.

Sister Hale raises her voice to carry through the nave: \"We are here on official business from the church authorities.\" The words sound hollow in the dusty air as she sees two guardsmen in tarnished armor emerge from the ash at the entrance, their weapons lowered but ready. A third figure, hooded and stooped, lingers behind them—Renn. Her heart twists with worry for him. She continues louder: \"The cathedral is scheduled for restoration under ecclesiastical decree.\"