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I've been wandering for what feels like days. My rations have long since run out, and the flesh of the creatures here somehow refuses to fill my belly. The weather grows cold, and the crows keep me up at night with their inane rambling and squawking.
I've found shelter in this cave, writing by the light of the single candle I have left. With the luck I've been having, this is probably the lair of a bea—