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The man and the witch in the bayou is a TBA story and can be classified under The Lovers.

Dialogue Tree[]

The shanty sits on the shore like a lie on a con-man's tongue, crowded by thick-spined trees. There's an old man on its porch, and a child, and what looks like a thousand alligators knotted across the property. "My love's being stubborn," sighs a voice behind you.
TURN AROUND
Washed in half-light, the voice's owner is a certain strange shade of handsome. He leans a shoulder against a tree, smiles at you. "You gotta help me talk some sense into her. All I need is five minutes, but she won't let me through."
TELL HIM TO DO IT HIMSELF (THE LOVERS) AGREE (THE TOWER)
That look on his face; it could strike down God from their hallowed halls. He exhales, a thin cut of noise, before he dips his chin. "Maybe, your right. Maybe, I should. Maybe, I should tell her sorry like I should have down ten thousand years ago." You follow the man as far as he'd go, up to the border of alligators, their tails swishing around your ankles. [TBC]
OFFER TO HELP
"Well, come on then." He crooks a finger at you and then nimbly, he prowls up to the borders of the house, picking his way through the alligators. "Woman, come out of your house now."
WAIT
A voice ricochets through the air, wry and wreathed in warning. "Ain't nothing good will come of that." At the reprimand, the man turns to you, a questioning look cocked.
ENCOURAGE SING
You open your mouth and what comes out isn't a word but the note of a song you'd not been taught. At the noise, the gators twitch like you'd run barbed wire along their bellies. "Go home an leave the gators," says a voice from inside. "You ain't wanted here."
SING
"You know that's not how it's done. When a man loves a woman, she stays with him forever. You come out now before my friend sings the bayou down to its death." The man and the child do nothing and you keep singing, all three of you cut loose from personal choice.
SING
A woman emerges: blunt black hair, hungry eyes, face full of warning. "This ain't your fight, stranger," she tells you gauzily, storm-clouded eyes holding your own. Suddenly, you throat's your own again. "Leave."
STOP SING
She nods at you, gratitude in the curve of her mouth. "Whatever you hear, don't turn around." Her concern proves unfounded. The alligators prove surprisingly quiet about their business. She sighs and the alligators stir at the sound, the light catching in the crenellations of the spines, and for a second, it looks like they're all frowning. Not smiling as reptiles do, but scowling like a creche of aunts. "Fine."
MOVE ON WATCH
Death comes without incident for all that it arrives in a torrent of teeth and thrashing tails. Unlike lovers, alligators bear no interest in causing pain. When they are done, they all turn to stare until you go.
MOVE ON MOVE ON
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