Last Flower Standing [Twig]

[RecursiveMontage]

Spoiler: WINNER

2. Calm. Investigate her belongings and room for any other sabotage.

Pearl controls her breathing. It helps to imagine that the Castellan is still holding her teeth. She performs a cursory examination of one of the wardrobes, then moves it to block the door.

She sorts through her luggage. Her clothing appears untouched. Different configurations of leather, mostly, with some choice dresses. Her makeup, dyes, and syringes are similarly sterile. Everything she brought is still there, with one exception.

Her rose is gone. The glass case remains, protecting nothing. Pearl holds it a long while.

Furniture is next.

The bedframe is solid bone, the covers are silk, and nothing lurks beneath either. Nothing hidden in the wardrobes. Nothing hidden in the desk. Nothing under the rug or in her pillows. She flips the bathtub over.

A slug. Sticking to the tub's underside, matching the colour. Sensing its exposure, it starts wiggling away from her.

Pearl reaches for the glass case. She trusts her gloves, but caution trumps trust. The slug falls to the floor and its skin changes to the same stony mottle as Lyreheart's scales. But Pearl is on it now. The scooping is swift.

She continues her search. Two more slugs. One hides in shadow and the other burrows into a shelf she had already looked over. They soon join their brethren. She wraps the case in leather and stuffs the package in a chest at one end of her room. She pushes her bed to the other side.

She checks everything a third time. Her body does not tire, but midnight is well and truly gone. A point comes where no amount of searching will increase her satisfaction.

A painting of the Castellan looms over Pearl's pillows. The Lady looks away; her gold hair flows down her back and terminates in a perfectly straight edge, each strand the same length. What can be seen of her face is disapproving enough to make Pearl hesitate a moment before changing into her nightgown. But change she must.



1. Sleep. The hour is late.

2. Work off her stress, then sleep.

3. Get up. Pace through the halls.

 

[the swarm]

so sleep is just for the mental side should we or could we report this theft

 

[RecursiveMontage]

Spoiler: WINNER

1. Sleep. The hour is late.

Wakes up to an unfull mouth. Checks pocket watch. Time to rise. Fifth time waking. Sixth time?

Puts on leathers, flushes venom sacs. Less sensitive today.

Checks the slugs. No sign of damage to the glass. They'll keep until a decision is made. Back in the chest they go.

Checks the mirror. Readjusts hat. Lip looks ready to collapse in on itself. Left maxillary central incisor, left maxillary lateral incisor, left maxillary canine, left maxillary first premolar, all gone. All a hole now. No support. No morning teeth.

Peeks out the door. Women walking. Most alone, some pairs and trios. All to the dining hall. All beautiful. Full of teeth.

Back to luggage. Picks out least favourite dress. Tears off a long strip, bunches the cloth. Puts it in mouth. Tongue winds it through teeth like floss. Leaves the bulk in the hole.

Screams.

Pearl takes the makeshift muffler out and rubs at her eyes. That was truly awful sleep, and a poor quantity of it. Her mind and body are at odds about how much rest they require and yesterday's events are still catching up with her. This is going to be a problem, especially with her dentistry bag gone.

But after some light exercise and makeup, she feels better. Her lip is barely noticeable. Her waistcoat is still a waistcoat. Her teeth are fine and her tongue is clean.

The feasting will start soon, and that's good, because she's hungry. She won't call it a sign but she's hardly going to be any more ready than she is now.

She heads out of her room, manoeuvring a wardrobe behind her so that it blocks the door from the inside. Far from a perfect barricade but it should be a serviceable deterrent to anyone who can't pick it up with one hand. The most serviceable she'll get, anyway.

She spends the walk to the dining hall mapping out her plans. And taking deep breaths.



1. Sit as close to the Castellan as she can get.

2. Walk the length of the table, examining her competitors.

3. Draw no attention to herself. Fade into the background.

 

[RecursiveMontage]

Spoiler: WINNER

2. Walk the length of the table, examining her competitors.

The dining hall's doors are wide open. Several women ahead of Pearl slow down as they cross the threshold. One outright pauses. The smarter ones have been moving at a gentle pace, so there's no need to adjust while they think about the scene in front of them. Pearl breezes by them, stride unbreakable. A small victory.

She walks with her right side to the table, to keep her left lip that little further from view. Unremarkable women abound, with fashion that blends from one to the next. A few are branching out into outfits so delicate they couldn't be worn for the travel from train to castle.

Others are visibly different in more distinct ways—missing fingernails, eyebrows, and patches of hair. Perhaps one in five are affected. The most severe case is missing an ear; she's making an admirable effort at covering it up, but her hair falls too flatly against her head and does little to hide the bleeding. She looks intensely focussed in a way that's just as distracting as the injury.

Edith sits near her, not put off like the other guests. She gives Pearl a small wave, tilting in her black ball gown, then returns to looking at her food as if it was a puzzle.

Doris is the next friendly face, offering Pearl a wink while she laughs along to a conversation. She's in good humour and a mess of feathers with a trench in place of a neckline.

Naomi glares at Pearl, too-large teeth snarling, before pointedly turning away. Rose petals are woven into her collar and the hems of her shoulders; her arms remain free to breathe.

Another guest stands out all the more because of her unfamiliarity. As muscular as Pearl, if not more so, with a dress made of crocodilian scales.

At the end of the table, to the right hand of the Castellan's unoccupied seat, is a woman clad entirely in white, only a veil short of being a bride. It makes the sole piece of colour pop out all the more—her cheek reverently holds a lavender lipstick mark.

Pearl stops.



[Write-in] Pick who to sit by.

 

[RecursiveMontage]

Spoiler: WINNER

[Write-in] The woman in the crocodile dress.

Pearl rounds the table and seats herself directly across from the woman in the crocodile dress. A smorgasbord of meats lies between them.

It's Pearl's first time meeting someone with a similar frame. Even with their many differences, it feels like looking in a mirror. A taller, more confident mirror, with a long braid that ends in a bulky knot. She appraises Pearl as though preparing to haggle over her price.

"Your muscles are new, aren't they?" the woman asks.

"What makes you say that?"

"Your walk, the way you carry yourself. How you look at me. You're not used to being strong yet." The woman leans in. "I won't hold it against you. We all start somewhere, and you've taken a step in the right direction."

"In the direction of..." Muscles? Strength? "Power?"

"Will to power, to be more exact. You haven't gotten bogged down in mere aesthetic imitation of the nobility, like so many do." She talks as if the women sitting around them don't exist. "You're seeking their force, the very stuff of their lives. A bold and dangerous journey that I simply must congratulate you on beginning. The beginning of it is the most important part, you see. From there, progress is inevitable."

Pearl dislikes the sensation that she is halfway to being led to some specific conclusion, however right it might be.

"It sounds," she says delicately, "almost as if you are complimenting yourself. Though I don't mean to misconstrue."

The crocodile only smiles, with teeth that go all the way to the back of her throat. "Let me show you something."

She leans to her left and slowly, in full view of everyone, picks up the largest knife of the woman sitting next to her. Nobody stops her.

"This woman may have grace or social acumen," the crocodile says, laying the knife on her own plate. She takes the next knife. "I neither know nor care." And the next. "Nor do I need to. Because I am simply more powerful than her."



1. Agree. Power certainly matters.

2. Retrieve the knives.

3. Copy the theft.

 

[RecursiveMontage]

Spoiler: WINNER

[Write-in] Power is a must, but the power they don't see is just as important as the power they do. (You really must find something to put in your venom sacs.)

"Power is a necessity," Pearl admits. "But it need not be visible. Poison and influence can each be the equal of any weapon."

"I have heard similar before, and not once have I found it convincing," the crocodile replies. "Display your prowess with a weapon and people will obey you. Display your poison and people will avoid your meals. It is a pointless thing."

Pearl's venom sacs ache. "Poison allows one to kill without blame. To shape events beyond one's reach, so long as the right cup presents itself."

"It does, yes." The crocodile rolls her eyes. "But secrecy is the refuge of the powerless. Why assassinate when you can execute? One only needs to extend one's reach if one's reach is insufficient. Influence is much the same. The weak exert themselves to trade favours or access an ear. The powerful simply act, and ripples move around them to bring their decisions into reality."

"And you truly have no fear of retribution down the road?"

The crocodile taps at her lip. "Does the Castellan fear retribution from you?"

"You are no Castellan."

The crocodile nods in concession. "But do you think the Castellan would fear any of us? All of us, working together? I doubt it."

She gestures to the knifeless woman beside her. "There are many courses of action she might take, and I fear none of them. She might leave. She might eat with her hands. She might conspire against me or aim to win my favour, or both. But those decisions spring from my action. No matter what she chooses, she moves by my will."

The subject at hand stands abruptly and stalks off to claim one of the two empty seats left at the table. A tacit admission of weakness.

The crocodile does not glance after her, eyes fixed on Pearl's. "She will wonder if this is what I intended for her. She will think of me often, in the days to come, but I will not think of her. I suggest you do the same."



1. Insist on the pragmatism of hidden power.

2. Display her venom sacs.

3. Watch the woman that was driven off.

 

[the swarm]

If you are powerful why deny using any tool so long as the cost is not to bothersome or turns everyone against oneself

 

[RecursiveMontage]

Spoiler: WINNER

3. Watch the woman that was driven off.

Pearl quiets herself, and the woman in the crocodile dress seems content with having the last word. There's no point arguing. The best way to prove herself right is to find an actual advantage by some means other than straightforward strength, not to deliver a verbal knockout here and now. To continue here would be self-defeating.

Irritating how that matches what the crocodile said.

Downtable, the knifeless victim heads toward a spare seat among the injured. She slouches over as she walks but still stands taller than most, extra long in leg and torso—and possibly teeth, if her oral proportions match—with a body clearly designed to stand out even among her peers. Fancy clothes too. Is that chitin? Yet she carries herself like a servant trying to blend into the background, half a step from cringing in front of her betters, as though she's fundamentally unsafe in high society. Little wonder the crocodile targeted her.

Pearl's gaze slides off her as one final guest enters the hall. A stout woman, creeping forwards with her hands slightly in front of her, entirely without eyes. The table gawks as she navigates towards them. There are still two free seats, but neither one is particularly close to her.

The sound of a fork striking glass pulls everyone's attention to the other side of the room, where a black coat stands next to the Castellan's chair. She speaks with a booming voice, drowning out all conversation.

"Now that we are all here, it is my unfortunate duty to inform you that the Lady Castellan will not be eating with you today. She does not feel that you have earned that pleasure yet. But she will be gracing each of you with a chance to prove yourself worthy in a contest of her own design. It should make for quite the ice-breaker."

The professor points to a large mosaic clock that hangs off the wall. It's twenty to eleven.

"We begin in ten minutes."



1. Get up. Help the blind woman.

2. Get a good look at her food.

3. Get busy eating.

 

[the swarm]

1. Get up. Help the blind woman.
Intriguing did the Lady take her eyes

 

[RecursiveMontage]

Spoiler: WINNER

3. Get busy eating.

The guests descend upon the feast with force enough to make the table buckle beneath their cutlery. Decorum is barely present, slicing and slashing and stabbing, speed over poise—using the proper knives and forks, of course, they aren't savages.

Pearl is no different. She piles meats onto her plate, selecting whatever's closest at hand, and cuts it with plate-threatening verve. She will not lose out on this.

From the first moment the flavour hits her tongue—no, before that, when her incisors make contact—Pearl is taken aback. Stunned. Her fingers hold steady but she sees other women trembling. The crocodile has to shut her eyes.

It is simply delectable. Well beyond even the finest cattlesows of home. The meat gives itself over to her teeth and tongue, pliant to her every whim, so tender and submissive that it's practically liquid. But when she bites, it gives a satisfying push-back, a subtle spring to her jaw that makes it all the easier to bite down again. She's devouring a playful argument between close friends.

Her tongue wraps around a chunk, crushing it like tentacles taking down a ship, squeezing bloody juices straight onto her tastebuds. It skewers the next bite and curls inside the meat, expanding until it bursts all over her teeth and gums and the roof of her mouth. The fork takes its precious time delivering more meat, and she can barely keep her tongue in her mouth while she waits.

Her vision narrows to her plate. Her meats. Hard to focus on anything else. Hard to think over the feeling, over the taste. Her hands exist to fuel her mouth. And as piece after piece slides down her gullet, smooth as breathing, the taste energises her. Her hands work faster, sending tribute. Her stomach works faster, speeding the digestive cycle. Her tongue plays faster, frolicking like a dolphin. Her teeth crash and slice and grind to bits. For a moment, she forgets the hole.

More.



1. Leave room for dessert.

2. Eat until she's full.

3. Stop a bite before bursting.

 

[RecursiveMontage]

Spoiler: WINNER

1. Leave room for dessert.

Pearl has eaten all her life. She has bitten and chewed and swallowed, but most of all she has tasted. She tastes through her tongue, through her palate, through her teeth. And when she can taste no more, she savours.

She was slow to learn savouring, at first. Hard to hold sensations in the mind when her mouth felt so empty. But she did learn. Memories and lingering crumbs. Between meals, during operations, and eventually even between bites. Her mother called it refinement. Pearl called it pleasure, but not in front of her mother. And savouring became a habit, as pleasures are wont to do.

So it is that when Pearl empties her plate in the middle of her feast haze, she pauses. Hovering over more meat, indulging in both afterglow and anticipation for just a moment, just long enough that a spark of volition can open her fingers and send her fork tumbling down, down, down to her plate. The clang echoes through the room but nobody looks up. They are all too busy eating.

She pushes herself away from the table. Grips the base of her chair. Looks at herself, so she doesn't see temptation. Her lap is wet with blood.

Her left leg bounces without her consent until she clenches it hard enough to quell the rebellion. She's jittery, adrenalized. Ready for anything. For something in particular, but she doesn't know what. For someone, and she does know who.

A loud whistle sounds from one end of the table—the black coat. The rest of the table gags and coughs in response. The natural order upends itself as meats go from mouth to plate.

Pearl risks a glance. The leftover meats are in the process of discolouring, blues and yellows driving away the succulent reds. Her fellow guests look dazed, as if roused from a spell. Their eyes rove with frightening speed, examining everything but seeing little.

The black coat's voice booms once more. "All rise for the Lady Castellan!"



1. Clean herself before she stains.

2. Neaten her cutlery and chair.

3. Kneel as quickly as possible.

 

[the swarm]

3. Kneel as quickly as possible.

 

[RecursiveMontage]

Spoiler: WINNER

3. Kneel as quickly as possible.

Pearl leaps from her chair and drops to one knee a few paces from the table. Her legs are not the speedy sort, but she's faster than the rest.

The Lady Castellan waltzes in, arriving at the head of the table. Pearl keeps her gaze low.

"Hold your positions. Raise your heads," the Castellan says.

The Castellan's beauty has not changed, except for the medals on her chest; different accolades for a different day. She shifts her focus around the room, gifting her gaze to each woman in turn.

"I expect that each of you has worked out the broad picture of why you're here. If not, you are desperately behind. But fear not. Today, you will have a chance to impress me."

She fixes upon Pearl. "Pearl. First to arrive. First to bend the knee. You will be the first to choose. Come. Speak freely."

Pearl obeys, rising to her feet and hurrying forwards. The other women stay still as statues, eyes following her. Envying her. Meat drips from their low curtseys. Pearl stops a respectful distance from the Castellan's side.

"What choice will I be making, my Lady?"

The Castellan smiles. "Explain the situation, Boch."

The black coat perks up. She looks at Pearl but speaks to the room. "You have ingested a concoction that included a particular hormone. It's not a poison, precisely, but it's similar enough for our purposes. The anti-agent is in two halves. One of them is yours to choose now. The other half has been ingested by, or injected into, a corresponding experiment."

The Castellan clicks her fingers and another hundred women enter the hall, in two neat and orderly lines that split up to fan around the room. Each holds a small pillow with a smaller pill on it. They wear red coats.

"One hundred possible trials," the Castellan says. "A test of analysis and execution. Those who succeed will earn a mark of my favour. Those who do not will... disappoint me."



1. Look over all the options.

2. Narrow it down by judging the doctors.

3. Only consider the closest. Be quick.

 

[RecursiveMontage]

Spoiler: WINNER

2. Narrow it down by judging the doctors.

Each pill has a short label. Useless names and jargon she can't make sense of. Pearl could think all day and come to no conclusion.

But she can examine the people holding those pills. The red coats are steady and focussed, used to the Castellan's presence. She ignores the majority, with their overly sanitised appearances that are so common among members of the medical class. They must vary in skill and style, but she hasn't the experience to judge them as a professor might. Instead she looks for the extremes, where her predictions will carry more weight.

She does not find much certainty. Many people stand out. Something about that itches at her teeth. Are they deliberately differentiating themselves? Why? To feed her information?

Her choice must influence them in some way. Perhaps they are being assessed alongside her. An incentive to deceive.

She grits her teeth. The Castellan did say to speak freely. "My Lady, may I ask them questions to aid my analysis?"

"I will permit you one question, to be answered by three doctors."

"Thank you, my Lady."



[Pick 3.]

1. A well-polished coat and better-polished skin. Rich, values aesthetics over function. Her pill's label reads 'Tree Griffin'.

2. A stiff button-up shirt, too high on the neck. Concealing something. Faking normalcy. 'Knight Centipede'.

3. Eyes that change colour when Pearl looks into them. Flashy and experimental. 'Barrel of Laughs'.

4. Stained shoes and a loose thread. Sloppy. Overlooks details. 'Extreme Pineapple'.

5. A face that could fit on anyone, unremarkable even among the unremarkable. 'Grippers'.

6. Custom jaw work designed to conceal large objects. Toothy, and secretive about it. 'Big Bat'.

7. Tense eyes, hunched shoulders. Outcast, shy, or both. 'Proto-Homunculus'.

8. A coat half a shade darker than the rest, barely drawing attention. Subtle and resourceful. 'Lessening Ferrets'.

9. A girl in puberty with a large coat to emphasise the size disparity. A prodigy? 'Rhinopottaphant'.

 

[RecursiveMontage]

Spoiler: WINNERS

8. A coat half a shade darker than the rest, barely drawing attention. Subtle and resourceful. 'Lessening Ferrets'.
&
9. A girl in puberty with a large coat to emphasise the size disparity. A prodigy? 'Rhinopottaphant'.
&
2. A stiff button-up shirt, too high on the neck. Concealing something. Faking normalcy. 'Knight Centipede'.

"You, you, and you." Pearl points around the room. "Describe your experiments."

Her first choice steps forward. She wears a fraction of a smile and a coat that's bordering crimson where her colleagues are merely red; unenhanced eyes would struggle to tell the colours apart. Of all the stand-outs, she stands out the least, and Pearl wishes to know why. She speaks with a measured tone.

"My lessening ferrets are a series of vat-grown polecats that range in size. Identical in form, but at different scales. The largest is precisely a pole long from tip to tail. The smallest of them contains the second half of my counter-agent. The larger ones are fiercely protective of it."

Pearl's second choice takes two quick steps forward. The preteen would stand out under any circumstances, but she emphasises her age with a fidgety posture and overlarge clothes that make her look even smaller. Old enough to know her youth bring advantages. She speaks with shining eyes.

"The rhinopottaphant isn't the biggest experiment I've ever put together, but it's pretty close. And it's still a miniature prototype. Defanged it for this, though, don't worry. Stripped out everything that would be unusual on a large land mammal. Didn't want fighting it to be completely impossible."

Pearl's third choice does not move. She's making an effort to blend in, and failing. The collar of her shirt and the cuffs of her sleeves extend several inches too far, awkward, like a criminal caught mid cover-up. She speaks with an unmoving jaw, as though her neck were in a brace.

"I have taken the lowly centipede and transformed it into a beacon of chivalry. It is a modernisation of outdated styles of combat, merging the manoeuvrability of a steed with the intelligence of a rider. Defeat it in a properly honourable duel, and it shall give you the antidote."

Pearl rolls her tongue over her teeth. Indecision will do her no favours.



1. The Lessening Ferrets.

2. The Rhinopottaphant.

3. The Knight Centipede.

 

[the swarm]

Okay everything makes sense except lessening in the ferret

 

[quantum lurker]

3. The Knight Centipede.

We built for Strength, but not that much for Strength, so we might be able to handle this one?
And a preteen being impressive enough to be employed here is not an opponent I want to fight, even indirectly that's for sure

 

[RecursiveMontage]

Spoiler: WINNER

3. The Knight Centipede.

Pearl picks up the pill labelled 'Knight Centipede'. It's the size of her thumb, the green of a mossy stone. She swallows it easily. The scent of old lemons lingers in her throat.

"A fine choice. You may leave at your leisure," the Castellan says. She gestures at an exit, then sweeps her arm towards the guests. "Who among you would like to choose next? Raise your hands."

A smattering of hands rise. The crocodile is one; Edith is another. But most don't move a muscle, content to wait in their poses and study any dregs of information that flow their way.

Pearl starts the long walk around the table. The buttoned-up doctor follows a dozen paces behind her. Peculiar.

"Agnes. Second to impress me, second to choose. You may ask a question."

The bride with the lavender mark on her cheek stands, dips another thankful curtsey to the Castellan, and walks to the nearest pill without hesitation. She gulps it down. "I trust in my Lady's grace. This"—she reads the pillow's label—"Greater Alpine Octopus will be my trial."

Again, the Castellan evaluates the room. Pearl wonders at her criteria.

"Hatty. You sent the third longest letter. Ask your question and make your choice."

A woman whose dress interweaves foliage and hair makes her way to the Castellan's side. She had not volunteered earlier.

"My Lady, is this truly necessary? Your presence is surely enough to motivate us."

"Perhaps you misunderstood." The Castellan's expression remains stoic. "Direct your question to the doctors."

"But is there no way for me to opt out?" The words are rapid, stemming from fear instead of thought. "I'm not made for this sort of task and it hardly seems a useful assessment. Isn't this a bit... too..."

The errant piece of backbone that led this rebellion crumbles under the full force of a Noble's gaze. The Lady gestures for Hatty to approach.

"Present your neck."



1. Leave. Pearl doesn't need to see this.

2. Stay. Watch.

3. Look for a way to intervene that isn't incredibly stupid.

 

[the swarm]

I do dislike this lady a bit but to slaughter all prospective brides until one remains

 

[quantum lurker]

3. Look for a way to intervene that isn't incredibly stupid.

 

[RecursiveMontage]

Spoiler: WINNER

2. Stay. Watch.

Pearl's feet stop, silent. Now is not the time to draw attention to herself. The room holds its breath.

The Castellan presses the back of her index finger against Hatty's throat. "Tell me, what qualities are most important for a lady-in-waiting?"

"Poise, etiquette, and political savviness. Suitable deference. Quickness of understanding." Hatty looks ready to continue adding to the list, but the Castellan cuts her off with a hum. The finger drifts up and down Hatty's neck.

"Not entirely wrong. Have you been displaying said qualities?"

"No, my Lady." She is quivering now. "I recognise that I have failed you."

"I am a great believer in personal growth. Your failure is not yet total. With the right scaffolding, you could become a worthy companion."

From the depths of her coat, the Castellan conjures a syringe full of forest. She taps it against Hatty's chin. "You will get your cure, no trial required. But I will have you earn it, even if you believe yourself incapable. Is that amenable?"

"Yes, my Lady. I will take what you give me."

"Excellent." She wraps her hand around Hatty's neck and hefts her into the air. The Castellan holds her arm perfectly straight, keeping Hatty below her eye level. She contemplates the dangling woman. "My brain outweighs you. Heavy is the head that wears the Crown. I have taken up a small amount of the Lord King's burdens, and my lady-in-waiting will be expected to take a portion of my own. She must endure."

Hatty chokes out a non-response. She does not resist.

"The rest of you may sort the remaining trials amongst yourselves. Approach me if you ever wish for a similar deal. With me, Boch. I suspect Hatty will soon be in need of your services." The Castellan walks out, Hatty in hand.

The guests find their feet around the table. Someone grabs a knife.



1. Time to go. The centipede awaits.

2. Pursue the Castellan. The first to approach will find favourable terms.

3. Remain in the dining hall. See if she can influence things here.

 

[RecursiveMontage]

Spoiler: WINNER

1. Time to go. The centipede awaits.

Pearl leaves the scuffling aristocrats behind. She needs to find that centipede. Her fingers are itching now, wanting to press against her teeth and pull at her gums. They're jealous of her tongue.

If only she was alone. The knight centipede's creator follows her through the hallways. Not particularly fast, but neither is Pearl. She doesn't know where either of them are going. Just away from the noise. Already, the sound of fighting is being crowded out by citrussy aromas.

Both sound and scent give way to sight: a leopard-sized lizard with six stripy legs dashes along the ceiling, faster than a person could sprint on the floor. It stops just as suddenly, directly above Pearl, tilting its head back and forth so it can size her up with both its eyes.

It hisses at her, baring stubby fangs. Nostrils expand on the roof of its mouth, sniffing at the air. If Pearl could get her fingers in there... But then it moves on, vanishing in the general direction of the dining hall.

Won't be the only one loose. The centipede might be roaming too. Maybe they all are. Brilliant.

She pauses at the next intersection. Lemons to the left. Towards the gardens. Looking over her shoulder—raising her chin over the stack of muscle there—she sees the doctor stop too.

"Shouldn't you be leading the way? You must have some idea of where your experiment is."

The doctor gives a jerky shrug. "You would know better than I."

Lemons it is.

She spots several other experiments on her journey. Most are small: a pack of string-spewing mice setting up tripwires around corners; a phosphorescent butterfly the size of her face, flitting in and out of windows; and a watermelon-shaped cat that flees when she approaches, rolling all the way to the gardens where wild grasses and flowers swallow it whole.

The flora comes up to her waist. She's not sure she likes the idea of wading in unprepared.



1. Follow her nose.

2. Interrogate the doctor.

3. Lay an ambush; let the centipede come to her.

 

[RecursiveMontage]

Spoiler: WINNER

1. Follow her nose.

Thistles and vines pull at Pearl as she wades through an ocean of greenery. Her leather keeps her safe. Lyreheart's walls press into the sky, framing the sun.

A flightless bird charges past, its antlers missing her by inches. Pearl whirls to keep track of it and her foot skids upon an uneven patch of soil. She stumbles, ankles aflutter, trying to keep her fists raised to fend off the bird's next pass.

It does not come. But the red coat shows up again.

Pearl drops her arms to her sides. "Please at least tell me you aren't going to attack me. There are enough threats about already, you needn't feel an obligation to add to my worries."

The woman blinks a touch too slow to be natural. But is it affectation or side effect? "If my silence has given a poor impression, I apologise. I simply wasn't aware that you wanted to talk."

"Conversation could dispel the tension. Why did you pick lemons for the smell?"

"I don't think it would be wise to talk about my experiment after the Castellan restricted your questions, but we could discuss other matters. Perhaps you have an opinion on heraldry? Or horsecraft?"

Pearl nods acknowledgment, even as her tongue lashes against her teeth. Frustration is getting to her. Or the poison in her belly. "It seems it is my turn to apologise. Perhaps quiet is best."

She keeps on. Her nose leads the way.

The air grows more and more acidic, until the knight centipede rises before her. Forty or fifty yards away. A segment of its steely blue carapace stands above the grasses, presenting an almost-human silhouette. Like a camel with a man for a hump. The amount of foliage shifting around it suggests a much larger base. It sinks down beneath the green.

When it pops back up, ten feet closer, she can make out the vague outline of a face on the exoskeleton.



1. Outmanoeuvre it as it approaches. Use every second to prepare.

2. Valiantly hold her ground. Meet her foe toe-to-toe.

3. Kneel before it. Display chivalry at the cost of vulnerability.

 

[RecursiveMontage]

Spoiler: WINNER

1. Outmanoeuvre it as it approaches. Use every second to prepare.

No plant, no matter how hardy, can withstand the knight centipede. Its hundred legs are glaives, axes, morning stars, smashing and stabbing and slicing to ribbons. Each step carves a clearing through the gardens. A path that leads straight to Pearl.

She sees this, digests it, and backs away. She has her strength and her leathers, but she's no fighter. The centipede will maim her as easily as anything else. She presses through a thicket of tough tree stumps, crouching low, then a bit lower when she remembers her top hat.

The tree stumps slow it only a moment, several legs getting stuck in place before it overwhelms the wood. Pearl continues her retreat.

"Do not flee, cur!" the knight yells. Its face does not move—mere etchings on the carapace. No teeth to speak of. The voice sounds a lot like the red coat, if she were screaming herself hoarse inside a coffin. "Have you no honour?!"

Where's the red coat? Walking in parallel, keeping pace, no effort to hide. Watching Pearl and the experiment in equal measure. Her eyes are more alive now, gleaming green. Giving away Pearl's position.

She runs. Jogs. Curses her legs. She needs speed, not stamina, but can move no faster than before. Her legs will keep this pace for days. Unless she is caught.

The centipede chases, an ever-closer clattering that cuts through every obstacle she can put in its path. Trees, vines, and thorny shrubs, nothing slows the knight as much as it slows her. She can *hear* how its legs are different lengths, its movements uneven, its many steps a cacophony of sharp points and blunt force.

"Face me!" it shouts, a whisper's distance away. "Face your destined end!"

Pearl leaps over a peculiar cube of wood, barely landing before the centipede smashes it to peculiar cube-shaped pieces. Some of the debris scatters in front of her, biting at her feet.

The first blade finds her back.



1. Call for aid. This is going poorly.

2. Plant her feet. Seize the centipede.

3. Roll with the impact. Run on.

 

[RecursiveMontage]

Spoiler: WINNER

[Write in] Turn. Talk to it. Point out that backstabbing is not honorable. Call for a parley to set terms and see if it will allow us a weapon.

Pearl swings herself around. Her coat took the brunt of the blow but blood still trickles out of her back. A sizeable cut; it will take entire minutes to stop the flow.

The centipede creeps towards her, picking its way through the cubes. She has a second to run or fight, but neither appeals. She needs more than a temporary advantage brought about by chance. A total readjustment of the playing field is in order, and she will bring it forth with her own will.

"Parley! I call for parley!"

The centipede circles Pearl with a body long enough to keep a few feet away in every direction. The iron noises of its legs grind against one another.

"Parley is for the trustworthy," it says. The knight in its back looks down at her with unseeing eyes. Long lances hang from its shoulders. "Those with honour. You have shown none. Why should I not slice you open and sup upon my cure?"

The flat of an axe presses against her nape like an overbearing relative. She notices her breathing comes faster, but there is no need to fear, no pain in her back. The experiment looks less frightening now, for all its many claws. The gulf of her imagination had made it worse. It is only trying to hurt her.

"You are no better," she retorts. "You stab a fleeing woman in the back. A chivalrous knight would have nightmares at the sight."

The axe withdraws even as the other legs grow more agitated. A compulsion, or control from its doctor.

"I will have nightmares regardless," the knight says. "Already, your scent fills my mind. You rot in my belly and yet you stand before me. It is unladylike."

"I am not the most gifted in etiquette, it's true. But I do abide by a code."

The centipede twists its way around her, scratching a deep furrow in the earth. "State your terms."



1. A sword fight. No need to delay, if the knight will only give her a weapon.

2. Pistols at noon. They must find suitable weapons together.

3. Jousting. The most knightly contest. Insist that Pearl be allowed to find a mount.