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The Cypress Son


Notes

Dark shadows dwell in these parts. Singing their songs like sullen lullabies in the swamp. With fingertips dipped in soot, they weave their tangled webs, just waiting for the next sad soul that dares to enter. Little by little: bit by bit, your toes sink down in the mucky pit. A terrible sound, a putrid smell, as you slither down into the pits of hell. For the Cypress Son. For the swamp witch.


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