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|Wood||Score: 5||Moves: 5|
Staggering into the wilderness with a gushing flesh wound is not a good idea.
In moments you are torn apart by a Wizzrobe, and your bones are picked clean by a Wizzrobe.
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It appears that the last blow was too much for you. I'm afraid that you are dead.
As you take your last breath, you feel relieved of your burdens. The feeling passes as you find yourself before the gates of Hell, where the spirits jeer at you and deny you entry. Your senses are disturbed. The objects in the dungeon appear indistinct, bleached of color, even unreal.
You appear to be made of a translucent floating white substance. There seems to be a golden halo hovering above your head.