Your head is pounding and your tongue is a piece of bark stuck to the roof of your mouth. You're not typically much of a drinker but you recall having a bit too much mead last night with your dwarf friend Pilfer. Of course that doesn't explain why you are waking up perched precariously high in this oak tree, wedged between two accommodating branches. Oh, wait. I guess it does.
66th place (out of 74) in the 29th Annual Interactive Fiction Competition (2023).
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