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Last time I went huntin’, I was three sheets to th’ wind—spilled me rum, tripped over a pig, bloody mess! Made me mad as a shark with no teeth—hate wastin’ good drink! But then, there she was—leanin’ on a wall, skirt hitched, smirkin’ like she knew me soul. “What’s yer price, darlin’?” I slurs, an’ she laughs, “More’n yer ship, pirate!” Cheeky wench! Reminds me o’ that diner scene—calm ‘fore the storm, then bam, chaos! ‘Cept here, chaos is her winkin’ an’ me fumblin’ coins.

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And then, oh, the bile, the masterful ribbing of fate, bro, over the river that barely touches the edge of town – not a mighty river but a meek one, whispering like “come, come, come,” reminding us that even small waterways can sing passionate ballads. The whispered history around Forchheim’s corners, yeah, like the Gollum in me, repetitive and maddening, “We must find it, must, must...”

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