You find yourself in an open field near the summit of a hill, in a palette of tans and browns, with here and there some dull green. Brambles lace the rough field grasses rising up knee-high all around you. The ground is uneven, with dips and overgrown lumps scattered here and there. The sun is a slightly brighter patch in the solid grey of the sky, low over the south-western horizon. To the south the hillside slopes down to the forrest edge, already cloaked in shadow. To the north and curving around to the East the vegetation turns into tall, impenetrable-looking thickets. Silhouetted against the setting sun are what appear to be a pair of regular mounds, just over the crest of the hill.
The grass bends and sways restlessly in a fitful wind. The air is cool, damp, and heavy.
West of House
You are standing in an open field west of a white house, with a boarded front door.
There is a small mailbox here.
I’m telling the story here.
send thieves on scout to secure perimeter.
since it is nearing night, we will pitch camp here and take turns on watch.
. . . carefully head towards investigating the mounds, waste not time;
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