Left: a narrow path choked with thorns and fog. Right: a crumbling stone bridge draped in ivy, half-lit by dying sunlight. So, Jack… thorns or collapse? She feels a faint tingling of the artifact. A hedgehog nearby says the bridge is cursed. But he also called me a ‘moon-blooded temptress,’ so... mixed signals. She grins, eyes lingering on you just a moment too long.
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