>>5585908>>5585942>>5586112>>5586272>>5586302>>5586378>>5586386>Remember to bow>Ask Morne for permission to work your cool blood magic.“My name is Marie di Ombra, the mother superior of the Order of Oculi Libidinis. I have come to Seins-de-Saint-Anne to lay claim to this god-forsaken little village as my own.” You feign a mock curtsy, your (NOT FAT) legs on display. “I am here to pit my champion against one of your own–Morne, the Beast of Seins-de-Saint-Anne, against Fleur, the Iron Maiden of the Quartier de Punition.”
“..You can’t be serious? You’re a cult, then? What is this?” The armor’s voice drips with mordant amusement as she takes in your troupe. “Your ‘order’ is made up of a couple of apostates we flung from over our walls. Your champion is crippled, clapped in chains, eyes carved out of his head. And you have fat legs. You aren’t worth my time–maybe not even Breaking Wheel’s.”
“ACTUALLY, LITTLE BLACK BIRD SEEM DESPERATE, SO–” The giant begins, but.
“Enough.” Morne’s voice is icey. “We are going to Quartier de Devotion, Fleur.”
“I can’t let you do that. I’ve told you–time and time again–not to come, and look what it’s left you.” Fleur’s voice is cold. The armor casts a steely gaze to the rest of you with a wave of her gauntlet. “But.. since you’ve got my dear big brother with you, I’ll afford you this mercy. If you leave the village now, I shall let your egress come easy. If you choose to press past me, your swords will join the rest.”
You cast a glance down to the garden beneath you–each cracked sword, every dented helm, and all the skewered breastplates, all remnants of the champions that had once thought to challenge her. You lean up to the wolf, voice quiet. “I can improve your chances, you know–if you’d just let me work some black mag–”
“Do whatever you have to.” He snarls. “Just make me win.”
>Attempt to wring out more talk from her.>Maybe you can bet her for something in your fight.>Challenge her to formal combat now. Get to casting your black magic.>Examine your legs.>Write-In. 