>>5591331>>5591350>>5591425>>5591694>>5591978>>5592317>Perform a perfunctory victory howl.>Back out of Morne. It’s time for celebratory fanfare over the corpse of his sister.You snap your head back and, with a dreadful gasp, howl toward the moon. The howl haunts the whole of the district–a black caterwaul that carries from the steeples to its roads–somewhere across the spectrum of pride and rage and bitterness. You listen to that echo bounce about your head as your conscience, now a blade of grass in a vast black wood, fades.
You uncouple yourself from the wolf, your mind again alone in a familiarly awkward, ungainly, slightly-too-top–heavy potato sack. The garden unfurls out before you as your vision returns–petal and blade, invalid and hag, knight and wolf in view. You watch the massive hound crack its spine back and again, begin to shrink.
“You finished then?” The invalid snaps out from behind a gravestone, crutch and bandages back in view–though he yet keeps a distance between himself and the beast. “Good. Now, don’t suppose you’re satisfied now that you’ve taken this district for you? Because, if it’s all the same to you, I’ve had enough entertainment for tonight..”
“No. We’re not done yet.” Morne’s voice cuts through the invalid’s words like ice as he shambles back up–steps uneven, breath ragged, blood clotted beneath matted fur, he looks half-alive. “We’re going through to the end. Fleur was just the first. I’ll take the head of every Bishop if I have to.”
Though the wolf’s chains somehow persisted through his transformation, you can’t say the same for his ragged prisoner shorts. You avert your eyes. No, wait, should you? You look back.
>Where’s your thanks for aid? You basically steered him through that encounter.>Get hurrying now–no need for faffing about. You don’t even know if you truly beat the Iron Maiden.>Inform him of the situation.>Keep staring. You freak.>Write-In. 