[ everything seems really dark today in camp.
but there are a lot of glowing
butterflies around... ]
(approach the butterflies, receive ghosts; memories of... less happy times. others can see them, too.
touch the butterflies, temporarily lose your memory.)
That's the queen . . .
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[Behind her, there are images of a house burning and charred pages drifting to the ground.]
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[noticing that, but not commenting yet]
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[There are also images of a world covered in snow and Tiffany herself, burying a small bundle in a grove as the butterflies flit around.]
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[his eyes flit towards your memory, before he averts them again]
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I do occasionally pry, but I am not very good at being tactful most of the time.
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