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With her final words, the undead seems to fall into the very stone archway. Her body phases through the brick like a phantom and she slips from sight. The light circle she made, however, persists–all at once, it expands in circumference like the maw of some beast and closes in around your party’s tank. You take a step forward in concern.
The light of the ring seeps into the black plate as fractures of white begin to creep out along the crevices of the berserker’s armor–and then, with thin hisses of steam, the armor begins to fall from her form and crumble into the ground like dust. Her greaves slip from her thighs, then the poleyns, her plackart, her breastplate, pauldrons.. and the helm falls from her head as a mane of ashen hair explodes out from beneath the visor.
Emilia takes a deep breath, casting her gaze downward, carefully flexing a palm, then stretching an arm out over another. “There. That’s better.” She sighs.
>Cover your eyes. Insist that she clothe herself.
>Keep looking.
>Offer some of your clothing. You kept spare military jackets on hand.
>Write-In.
