Slipping up the steps to Clotho's garçonnière, you find the door ajar. Pushing the door open ever so slightly, you see a slight figure, wrapped in blankets and with bound wrists exposed, leaning against the wall. The apartment is a riot of plants and herbs—the smells assault your nose—as well as trinkets, jars, and other accoutrements of her trade. Through an open French door into a second room, you spy a lantern flickering on a short wick as someone rummages through Clotho's things.
You feel yourself flush with emotion and confusion: who is this intruder? Is Clotho alright? What is going on here?
You see several clear courses of action before you.
I slip inside, and try to subdue the person in the other room. Then I can free Clotho.
I slip inside, and free the bound figure.
I throw open the door, and loudly demand to know what is going on here.
Whatever Clotho is involved with, she is clearly in over her head. By which I mean, I don't want to get dragged down with her. I shut the door and walk away.
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