The Kamal Valley
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He watches the sea, mutter to himself, pulls at his graying beard, he speak of his dreams.
He floats in the stall of items, from the back of the tent a soft wheezy sounds, his two eyes turn, the voice in your mind is soft and reminds you of an old friend, Welcome Friend.
She smiles slowly, the haze of purple smoke swirls a halo of a pungent smell, the smell of fish chowder bubbles from the fire, she waves to you, welcoming you to her inn.