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You brush the dust and cobwebs away. Your hands turn it over. Written on it is Ale of the Coormiller clan. You use the ring of the Brewian tree folk to pop the top off.

“Well, this seems like a good idea” you say to yourself with a shrug.

You lift the bottle to your mouth and guzzle it down. The brew slides across your tongue, reminding you of sugared, liquefied cardboard. The taste is bland and stale, with a putrid quality that turns your stomach.

“This is undrinkable!” You spit it out, gagging.

But it’s too late. Your body begins to dry and shrivel until you are just a pile of dust on the floor, no match for a broom. You will never save your friends and the realm is forever cursed under the witch’s spell. Because seriously, you thought it was a good idea to drink a random bottle in a witch’s hut. What the hell did you think would happen, dummy.


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