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You peer into the boiling pot. A wooden handle juts out of a crust of mossy green hops and foam. Gripping the handle, you swirl the brew. The spoon hits something solid inside.

“What could this be?” you ask yourself.

You prod it with the spoon, but it won’t budge. You swirl harder, trying to draw the object to the surface, not caring how much you splash or oxygenate the concoction. A limp hand emerges from the boiling crust, wearing the ring given to you by the Brewian tree folk, the very ring that you are still wearing! Gasping, you pull on the hand.  You see your own face surface in the murky brown boil!

“This is can’t be happening!” you shriek.

The body jerks to life and pulls you with an iron grip, yanking you deep into the cauldron. You are drowning in brew, desperately kicking your legs, struggling to find air. You surface, gasping, coughing.

You float in the middle of a small glass tube with light filtering in from a circular hole above you, just out of reach. You pound on the clear, brown glass walls that surround you to no available. A shadow casts over you at the light is slowly eclipsed. You swear you can hear the echoing cackle of the witch as you are sealed inside. You dead.


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