Round 1 Transcript

The room is a makeshift shrine carved into the crumbling stone of the church’s ruined nave, its walls slick with ash and the faint glow of the lanterns hanging from warped rafters. The air tastes of damp earth and the distant thunder that threatens to break the sky. Here, Jeane, Silra, and Sister Hale sit on broken pews, each clutching a piece of their scattered gear, while the rusted key glints ominously in the lantern light. A low murmur from the storm outside reminds them that the city’s ancient traps still lie dormant beneath the cracked floor. The unholy symbol lies on the table, half-buried in dust, and the unspoken question hangs thick: will they seize the chance to rebuild the church into a new cult, or will the guards and unseen terrors halt their plans? The choice is theirs, and its outcome will decide whether Gravehill’s ashes become a shrine or a silent ruin.

I trace the rust on the key with one finger. This dead magistrate—Renn was it?—claimed this opens the catacombs beneath the church proper. Burial crypts are typically well-stocked in… artifacts. And the more valuable our offerings become, the faster a following will gather, yes? My smile is cold as the stone around us. But I want to know: has Renn betrayed us already to the city guard? His fear was palpable. If we enter those catacombs only to find soldiers waiting, then this exercise becomes a waste of time and supplies.

I check the edges of my blades with practiced fingers, listening to that distant thunder. A dead man’s key and a nervous informant who smells like graveyard dirt—a perfect recipe for a swift execution if we misstep. My eyes meet Sister Hale's across the circle of lantern light. So let me be clear: I’m no martyr for some half-baked resurrection scheme, and I certainly won’t die so we can hold sex parties in what’s left of this city. If you lot want to play priestess with ghosts and whatever crawls up from below, fine. But I want a cut of any real treasure we find down there—gold that actually clinks—and a guarantee we don't walk into an ambush. Otherwise I'm back on the road before the storm breaks.

I look at each of them in turn, my expression grave. This is no mere treasure hunt or blasphemous ritual for personal gain. My voice cuts through Jeane's pragmatism and Silra's mercenary calculus. The key opens not a vault but the crypts where the church’s true purpose might still reside—salvation offered freely to those who seek it, not sold like trinkets at market.