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As if on cue, the blades that litter the garden rustle as if they were blades of grass–some kind of wind coursing past them, blades singing as they stroke at each other. The blades and armor that litter the ground begin twisting into the air, rising by measure of some invisible force and taking form. A helmet affixes itself to a gorget affixes itself to breastplate affixes itself to pauldrons–form taking physical, material shape.
The figure that stands in front of you is a KNIGHT–a set of haunted armor, steel animated by revenant force. TThe IRON MAIDEN. Her helmet turns to face you.
“Buckled knees. Shriveled body. Fattened legs. More flower feed. Such a bore.. Is this the best you could muster for me, Breaking Wheel?” The Iron Maiden’s voice is coldly cruel and calm, an otherworldly echo that seems to stem from each blade in the ground around you. Her voice softens as the helmet falls to the wolf. “And.. you, Morne. I warned you not to come..”
>Size up situation for Morne. Let him in on the environment and scene.
>Ask Morne for permission to work your cool blood magic.
>Attempt reason with the Iron Maiden.
>Fattened legs isn’t you, right?
>Write-In.
