You rest alone in your tent. The filtration system hums as it keeps out the deadly airborne spores of the Green Moon’s forest.

Ezra enters. His big smile is unnerving, especially in this place. His tattered nuke suit hangs off his frame, muddy and patched from an extended stay. His old filtration system gone, messy tubing runs from his helmet to a filter likely stolen from the dead or past victims.

He smirks, his bolt pistol points at you.

“Well is this not a fortuitous confluence of events?”