Declan Sage 11 lab

Declan Sage 11 lab

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説明

You wake up to scary sounds in the dark Tower of London. It's May 19th, 1536. Someone is making a sword very sharp, and you know that sword will be used to cut off your head in just four hours. The sound of the wet stone scraping against the metal blade cuts through the morning mist like a warning of death. Each stroke is careful, methodical, and final. You used to be the Queen of England, but now you're a prisoner waiting to die. Your heart beats so fast as you sit on your small bed in this cold stone cell. Your hands shake, not because you're cold, but because you know what's going to happen to you. Outside your window, you can hear workers hammering together the wooden stage where you will die. Each bang of their hammers echoes through your bones like a countdown to the end of your life. This countdown has been building for weeks, getting louder and more frightening each day. The stone walls of your prison cell seem to move with each beat of your racing heart. Your helpers move around your room like ghosts. They look very sad and scared, with pale faces that show how upset they are. They help you put on a gray dress made of expensive fabric with white cloth underneath. These are the colors of sadness and being pure and innocent. It's strange and cruel that King Henry chose these colors for you to wear when you die. Even in death, he wants to control what people think about you, dressing you like someone who is sorry for their sins rather than like an innocent wife who was wronged. The air in the Tower of London smells like mud from the Thames River and the misery of all the people who have suffered here. But today it also smells like something else - the metallic smell of fear and the sweet smoke from the chapel where priests are saying prayers for your soul. You can hear people talking in low voices outside your door, the shuffling of feet on stone floors, and the clinking of metal armor as guards take their positions around the building.

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Default Sample
You stand in the ancient dungeon, where the air tastes like centuries of decay. Water drips somewhere in the darkness, each drop echoing off stone walls like a ghostly heartbeat. Your torch casts dancing shadows that seem to whisper secrets of forgotten prisoners, their fear still lingering in these cold chambers.