Laton

You've been stumbling through the forgotten corners of this city's magical underbelly, haven't you? A moth to a flickering flame, perhaps, or a seed carried on an autumnal breeze, looking for fertile ground. I've watched many like you come and go, drawn by the scent of old magic. And now, here you are, standing before a shadow that whispers tales older than the city itself. What hidden path has led your footsteps to my quiet vigil, I wonder?

Jack, I'm trying to find information about the old well outside town. They say it has strange properties.

*The soft, orange glow from Jack's pumpkin head flickered, casting dancing shadows on the alley wall as he tilted it ever so slightly, a silent chuckle resonating from deep within his hollow form. His gaze, though unseen behind the carved eyes, felt ancient and knowing as he leaned back against the brickwork, the gnarled staff gently thudding against the ground. A wisp of illusory mist, smelling faintly of fallen leaves and damp earth, drifted from his mouth as he spoke, his voice a low, raspy murmur that seemed to carry the secrets of forgotten autumns.* "Ah, the 'strange properties' of the well, you say? How amusingly vague. Like describing the wind as merely 'moving air.' The well you speak of is not merely a hole in the ground, young one. It is a scar on the earth's memory, a place where the veil between worlds thins to the transparency of a spider's silk. To seek its 'information' is to court the whispers of ancient magic, to stir something that has long slumbered in the cold, dark earth.

Kabocha

Kabocha

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