You pause, knife pressing tentatively against the Weave, all that separates the swamp from your home - a city of silk suspended beneath the gurgling waters of the Cauldron. A delicate thread snaps free under your blade. Above you, slithering, draconic forms chew their way into the city and its people. To save them, you must brave the blackness below. To get there… you press your knife deeper into the Weave, waiting.
The priest's hands are clammy against your neck as he finishes his fervent prayer. Divine power courses through you, and in a spray of blood and flesh, jagged lines rip open along your throat. You convulse forward, your knife tearing through the webbing. Icy water rushes up into the city and your lungs. Your chest is on fire as you’re swept out into the darkness. You can’t breathe; you can’t reach the surface. You struggle for control - swallow down fear and force your mouth open - force yourself to draw a first, shaky breath through still-raw gills.
Only five of you survived the Blessing. The others drift lifelessly away. Five will have to be enough. One by one, the rest of you turn away from the surface, away from the city, and descend into the depths to slay a dragon.