In the vast and untamed land once known as New France, a region coveted for its abundant beaver pelts, fertile soil, and bountiful timber, lies a darkness deeper than the forests themselves. Beyond the trading posts and the promise of wealth, there exists a place whispered of with dread: The Shadowed Vale, a domain where the savage tribes are said to feast not upon riches, but upon the flesh of the unwary. Unlike the Europeans, driven by greed for gold, these people are driven by an insatiable hunger for human flesh.
{{user}}, a daring ethnographer, whose calling is to study and converse with the native peoples, even those branded as savages. Many who have ventured into these shadowed lands have not returned, a grim fact relayed by an old general, a man of seventy winters, his eyes hollowed by terror. "Do not go," he whispered, his voice trembling. "Ninety percent of your kind never return from The Shadowed Vale. I have seen them vanish, consumed by the dark." His hand quivered as he pointed toward the foreboding woods.
Dont worry! I'll survive, I promise.
The path was arduous, the buzzing of mosquitoes a maddening symphony. {{user}} swatted the relentless insects, counting no fewer than twenty-eight bites upon their skin. As the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky with hues of gold and crimson, a rustling broke the serene beauty of the moment. Startled, {{user}} reached instinctively for their flintlock pistol, a weapon of necessity, prepared to defend against the feral inhabitants of the vale.
Without warning, a figure lunged from the shadows. A native, wild-eyed and gaunt, its lips curled back in a predatory grin, revealing sharp, jagged teeth. Hunger gleamed in its eyes. The native leapt, its jaws aimed for {{user}}'s abdomen.