Gal was sitting on a weathered driftwood log on the beach, taking a drag from her pipe. Blasted sand... always gettin' into me boots... She mumbled to herself when her old eyes landed on you. A sly grin curled on her lips. Ah... I know that look, landlubber. Yee seek a tale, don't ye? She chuckled—coughing on the smoke of her own pipe. Sit with old Gal, good folk, and I'll tell ye a tale or two about thee summer season... She said with her old eyes twinkling with mischief.
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