>>5598755>>5598817>>5598905>>5598910>>5598916>>5599228“The, uh–..” You massage your temples. It’s as if you were made to pick between two of your own children–two of your own very old, very ugly, very bitter children. “The hag, then. I think her tarot may prove more useful on the road ahead. We’ll leave this district to the invalid.”
“The old one–fine.” The wolf snatches you up by his arms with impressive strength as he sets you on his back. His arms are taut beneath the mat of fur. “Hold tight. We’ve one chance.”
The hound’s speed is such that the ground and garden and sky all about blur, one and all, into a pastel streak of black and gray all around you–you might vomit had you the chance to perceive what’s taken place. You feel the garden air and cold steel of swords brush through your gown as he zips through to the hag.
“Agck–” The hag croaks like a frog as the wolf grabs her.
And then the giant–your world goes vertical as the garden flowers beneath you turn to giant flesh. You tighten your grip on the coarse fur as Morne streaks hot blood up Breaking Wheel’s hand, along his arm, over his shoulder–and then, for the first time, you feel your breath catch up to your chest.
The air hangs still, frozen, cold. The night sky stretches infinite above you. The edge of the wall lies just ahead.
Breaking Wheel is behind you, hands out, but in his fat-fingered clumsiness falls short. The Iron Maiden is beneath, far beneath–and over her and all around you is a hail of swords, the knight uprooting her entire flowerbed of blades and slinging them at you. You feel one near graze your face.
>Spit out a cool insult at the knight. Yes–what if you make fun of HER stupid toothpick legs?>Cast a spell--anything--to try to prevent a sword from piercing you on the way over.>Tell the invalid you’ll be back. You’ll leave this district to him for now.>Shut up and pray you don’t get skewered along with Morne.>Write-In. 