124

The pendant brings to mind the events that put you in your current condition, and before you know it you’re speaking of them to the girl. You tell her a tale of skid marks, the horse having splashed into a puddle of blood, tripe and muscle, and strange bite marks in a skin sac of bones. It isn’t very coherent, but most of it gets mentioned at some point. At the end of your ramble, wondering why you did go into such detail without much restraint, you look at your host in time to see her almost drop the pendant and fall over, limbs shaking and nearly failing. She takes the bottle of whatever she fed you to get you together and swigs.

“That was my father.” she says. It had looked as though she might try and kill you when she held the golden moth in front of you. She could probably have done it too. You were and still are a groggy, slowed-down mess. All she would have needed was some hard, solid object that would surely be within a few steps reach of her, in her own home. Now though, the fight has left her.

“I’m sorry.” you manage. She walks away with the bottle, leaving you alone in the front room of her house. You decide to wait a bit. There’s no sense leaving a decent chair until kicked out. Turn to 3.