>>5601083>>5601140>>5601220>>5601244>>5601544>>5601626>Graciously offer to clean his wounds with your tongue.>Ask him about himself.>Ask what he knows about what’s ahead.“Your wounds are pretty deep there.” You point out, ever the generous witch. “Hmm.. perhaps I could.. clean them with my tongue?”
“..What?” The hound’s maw opens and closes again as he takes in what you just said. The hag seems to be frozen in shock at your utter lack of restraint. “You catch a blade in the head? You sound more like a monster than a woman.”
“No. That was sexy.” You look down at him. How did your bold strategy not work? “But which do you prefer? For future reference.”
“What? Ugh.. Is this your idea of deathbed conversation?” The hound places a hand over his face. “If it’ll sate you.. for me, it’s humans. I can’t stand monster girls. It’s always rot, and fangs, and scales, and bones. They’re crazy and violent and unpredictable. I just can’t see the appeal. I’ve tried.”
“Oh?” You raise a brow. You stand a chance? “And humans are all that different?”
“I can let my guard around humans–for the most part.” You feel a subtle tilt in his jaw toward your direction at that mention of ‘for the most part.’ “Not so mad. Usually less rotten. Sometimes even kind. I can appreciate that sort of warmth when it comes. Might’ve been nice.”
“What would?” You feel his breath slipping from somewhere deep beneath his ribs, his whole body slowing.
“Feh. You know.” Morne curls his lips. “I slip somewhere far away with someone I love. I lay down my sword and raise a child. It’s a nice fantasy for a monster. I plan to remember it when I wind up getting shot through the head by a soldier and lie dying in a dark, dirty hole in the ground some day.”
Morne’s words slip from him with his breath, easy and light, and he dies in your lap just like that. You sit still for a long moment–maybe ten minutes, maybe fifteen, before the tolls of a church bell hundreds of miles northward begin to toll, long and low and slow. With each toll, the wounds on the wolf seem to dissipate: cuts sewing themself shut, blood seeping away as if beneath water.
The wolf rises with a sharp breath. “Ugh. Cold.” He shudders. “It’s always cold when you die. Can’t stand it.”
It’s difficult to make out much proper ground from your perch so far atop the wall. The DISTRICT DE DEVOTION looks distinct from PUNITION–much livelier, much less death and sword and smoke–but you can’t distinguish details. You’ll need to get down from the wall for a proper go-through.
“Good. More people here. More proper cultists.” Morne’s ears prickle at the sound of merriment from below. “More chances for a decent interrogation.”
>Leap from here with Morne and the hag. Get right into the fray of things.>Look for the DULL, SAFE way down, the stairs. >Ask the hag to divinate Morne for you.>Write-In. 