text: "Heads!"
  
  
  The coin flips through the air ahead of you, as you step back, looking at the coin with interest. He steps back, leveling your own shotgun at you as he the coin lands in the dirt. The Fool peers down at it, tilting his head, before flipping the shotgun in his hands, grabbing the barrel and offering the stock to you.
  
  
  "It's your lucky day, Hunter. Good luck to you."
  
  
  You grab the shotgun, holding it in your hands and aiming it at the suspicious, patch coat man. 
  
  
  "Who the fuck are you?"
  
  
  "An interesting question! Do you like riddles?"
  
  
  "No."
  
  
  The Fool frowns.
  
  
  "So dull. You're a dull old fellow, aren't you? Perhaps I should be helping the wolves."
  
  
  "Just tell me who you are, dammit! I'm a dying man, I don't have time for this."
  
  
  The Fool opens his mouth to complain, before pausing, then shrugging.
  
  
  "A slave I have been and shall remain
  
  To a golden mistress I'm tied with invisible chains
  
  Yet always I put on the same brave face
  
  She keeps me her prisoner, but leaves me some space."
  
  
  The Fool smiles at you for a moment, before raising an eyebrow.
  
  
  "So... who am I?"
  > A Werewolf
  "You're a werewolf, aren't you? You're one of those fucked up beasts."
  
  
  "No, I'm far older than even werewolves, I'm afraid. Well, I best be off. Good luck dealing with my boy tonight, Willy."
  
  
  "Wait!" you growl, aiming your shotgun at him. "You move and I blow your brains out!"
  
  
  The Fool sighs, shaking his head.
  
  
  "I don't think you really know how this game works, do you?" the Fool says. 
  
  
  The Fool leans forward, placing his thumb against the shotgun barrel. He scratches at his puffy, burned eyes, sighing.
  
  
  "You're not going to shoot that gun," he says simply.
  
  
  With that, the Fool turns, strolling off into the woods. You try to aim your shotgun, but find your arms are incapable of moving, the numb, cold muscles refusing to work. All you can do is watch as the Fool disappears into the darkness.
  
  
  When he's out of view, you snarl. You sniff the air, smelling the scent of prey, and... you try to focus on the pain for a moment, ignoring your bestial senses, before you smell something else. The smell of smoke, in the distance. 
  
  
  You pause, raising an eye. Smoke means fire. Fire means activity. There needs to be something in that direction.