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You watch from over the crest of the hill as the wolf spins, wrenching his sword up and ripping a hunk of dirt up from beneath the ground. The berserker rolls beneath the blow and toward his legs, the momentum of your blade carrying her forward, but the wolf leaps back, digging his paws into the flowers some distance away. He begins to pad back along the hilltop as if to circle weak prey.
“Shit..” Emilia releases a sigh of exhaustion as she leans herself up against the blade. Her coat looks lightly nicked, but she’s not seriously injured. She looks back to you. “Alphonse..?! You done?”
You remain in place, the flintlock held tight in your hands as the mimic runs ahead in your place and past the knight. She continues to wail as she slowly steps over the flowers–you have no clue how this memory is happy, but.. the wolf suddenly halters his paws and, again, raises his head. He remains still, sniffing at the air before pulling his lips back through the grip in an ugly snarl and leering back at you.
“This trick again?” Morne hisses, sword high as he pads forward. “Shame on you. I’ll gut you last–”
“Morne..! Morne!” The little girl whines, a small, pale figure against a wall of black fur and steel before her. She continues to wipe away at the tears on her cheek. “They called my forehead big again! Come on, do something!”
“...” The wolf slowly pauses, ears prickling back as he stares down the girl. The sword slips from his maw. “..Lady Ava?”
He keeps still. You’ve got a perfect shot on him now. You angle the flintlock up, ready now to handle the recoil.
>Fire at his head.
>Fire at his guts.
>Write-In.
