Beneath the glow of candlelight, The puppeteer begins her rite. Threads of silk, so fine, so frail, Bind her puppets—ghostly pale.

Her fingers dance, a master’s art, Each tug and pull, a beating heart. They leap, they bow, they spin, they sing, Bound forever by the string.

But there, beyond her crafted grace, A figure moves, an untamed face. No strings to bind, no threads to steer, Yet closer still it draws, sincere.

You jolt awake on some stick planted in the ground, you twist and turn until it snaps off.. leaving you unhanded.. you were in some cornfield.. with a forest nearby.. and a old house in the distance that seems to be the only place you should get to first.

Gazing at your body, you feel like many pieces of straw inside you.. as well as your hair.. well it was a lot dark and indigo, you were wearing a dark gray hat and a black jacket with boots. You feel weak.. straw doesn’t seem like you could do much but just walk and explore. But where would you go though..?