Carrotville

Well, you did it. You hired people to pack for you, and you flee by cover of night to Carrotville. On the rickshaw ride there, some giant bird that I have created just for the purpose of this single event in the story swoops down, picks you up, flies around for awhile, and then drops you onto a bed of rocks. The fall is enough to kill you, and it does. That’s it. You made the wrong choice. You’re dead now.

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