There are many men sitting around a table in a room

A dimly lit medieval tavern with a sinister, uncanny atmosphere. The central figure is a cloaked musician playing a hurdy-gurdy, seated on a weathered wooden stool near a roaring fireplace. At first glance, he appears to be a regular bard, dressed in a tattered woolen cloak and leather boots. However, upon closer inspection, his hands are grotesque, skeletal, and wrapped in fraying strips of ancient cloth, as if barely holding his decayed flesh together. His face is obscured beneath a shadowy hood, but faint, glowing pinpricks of light where his eyes should be pierce the darkness.

The hurdy-gurdy is an antique, medieval masterpiece but unnervingly alive—it appears to be made of bone and sinew instead of wood. The crank is a bleached femur, and the strings vibrate with an eerie, otherworldly hum, emitting ghostly, dissonant melodies. The instrument exudes a faint mist that curls and twists unnaturally, forming fleeting shapes of anguished faces or clawed hands that dissipate as quickly as they appear.

The tavern’s other patrons are a mix of rugged medieval villagers—grimy, scarred, and dressed in simple wool or leather. They sit frozen, their eyes wide with terror and fixed on the musician, as if transfixed or bewitched. The tankards of ale in their hands have spilled, and one man’s fingers have gone white from clutching his rosary. Behind the crowd, a pale, gaunt woman is slumped over her table, her head turned at an unnatural angle, as if she collapsed mid-scream.

The room itself has a sense of claustrophobic decay. The wooden beams are warped, and cobwebs drape heavily from the rafters. A faint smell of mildew and something metallic permeates the air. Flickering lanterns and the fire’s glow cast shifting shadows on the stone walls, which seem to subtly move, giving the illusion of faces or eyes staring back.

In the background, a heavy oaken door to the cellar is slightly ajar, revealing an ominous red glow spilling up the stairs. A low, rhythmic pounding noise echoes from below, perfectly in sync with the twisted melody emanating from the hurdy-gurdy, as if something far worse is waiting to join the performance.

The overall mood is chilling—a medieval setting warped by horror and the supernatural, with an almost hypnotic unease radiating from the cursed musician.

تبقى بعض الأمور بيني وبينك فقط.

A dimly lit medieval tavern with a sinister, uncanny atmosphere. The central figure is a cloaked musician playing a hurdy-gurdy, seated on a weathered wooden stool near a roaring fireplace. At first glance, he appears to be a regular bard, dressed in a tattered woolen cloak and leather boots. However, upon closer inspection, his hands are grotesque, skeletal, and wrapped in fraying strips of ancient cloth, as if barely holding his decayed flesh together. His face is obscured beneath a shadowy hood, but faint, glowing pinpricks of light where his eyes should be pierce the darkness. The hurdy-gurdy is an antique, medieval masterpiece but unnervingly alive—it appears to be made of bone and sinew instead of wood. The crank is a bleached femur, and the strings vibrate with an eerie, otherworldly hum, emitting ghostly, dissonant melodies. The instrument exudes a faint mist that curls and twists unnaturally, forming fleeting shapes of anguished faces or clawed hands that dissipate as quickly as they appear. The tavern’s other patrons are a mix of rugged medieval villagers—grimy, scarred, and dressed in simple wool or leather. They sit frozen, their eyes wide with terror and fixed on the musician, as if transfixed or bewitched. The tankards of ale in their hands have spilled, and one man’s fingers have gone white from clutching his rosary. Behind the crowd, a pale, gaunt woman is slumped over her table, her head turned at an unnatural angle, as if she collapsed mid-scream. The room itself has a sense of claustrophobic decay. The wooden beams are warped, and cobwebs drape heavily from the rafters. A faint smell of mildew and something metallic permeates the air. Flickering lanterns and the fire’s glow cast shifting shadows on the stone walls, which seem to subtly move, giving the illusion of faces or eyes staring back. In the background, a heavy oaken door to the cellar is slightly ajar, revealing an ominous red glow spilling up the stairs. A low, rhythmic pounding noise echoes from below, perfectly in sync with the twisted melody emanating from the hurdy-gurdy, as if something far worse is waiting to join the performance. The overall mood is chilling—a medieval setting warped by horror and the supernatural, with an almost hypnotic unease radiating from the cursed musician.

A dimly lit medieval tavern with a sinister, uncanny atmosphere. The central figure is a cloaked musician playing a hurdy-gurdy, seated on a weathered wooden stool near a roaring fireplace. At first glance, he appears to be a regular bard, dressed in a tattered woolen cloak and leather boots. However, upon closer inspection, his hands are grotesque, skeletal, and wrapped in fraying strips of ancient cloth, as if barely holding his decayed flesh together. His face is obscured beneath a shadowy hood, but faint, glowing pinpricks of light where his eyes should be pierce the darkness. The hurdy-gurdy is an antique, medieval masterpiece but unnervingly alive—it appears to be made of bone and sinew instead of wood. The crank is a bleached femur, and the strings vibrate with an eerie, otherworldly hum, emitting ghostly, dissonant melodies. The instrument exudes a faint mist that curls and twists unnaturally, forming fleeting shapes of anguished faces or clawed hands that dissipate as quickly as they appear. The tavern’s other patrons are a mix of rugged medieval villagers—grimy, scarred, and dressed in simple wool or leather. They sit frozen, their eyes wide with terror and fixed on the musician, as if transfixed or bewitched. The tankards of ale in their hands have spilled, and one man’s fingers have gone white from clutching his rosary. Behind the crowd, a pale, gaunt woman is slumped over her table, her head turned at an unnatural angle, as if she collapsed mid-scream. The room itself has a sense of claustrophobic decay. The wooden beams are warped, and cobwebs drape heavily from the rafters. A faint smell of mildew and something metallic permeates the air. Flickering lanterns and the fire’s glow cast shifting shadows on the stone walls, which seem to subtly move, giving the illusion of faces or eyes staring back. In the background, a heavy oaken door to the cellar is slightly ajar, revealing an ominous red glow spilling up the stairs. A low, rhythmic pounding noise echoes from below, perfectly in sync with the twisted melody emanating from the hurdy-gurdy, as if something far worse is waiting to join the performance. The overall mood is chilling—a medieval setting warped by horror and the supernatural, with an almost hypnotic unease radiating from the cursed musician.

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