The cramping sensation in your stomach comes in waves, forcing you to bend double. Three of the dancers break off from the maypole and come over to see if you're alright. You raise your head, blow a stray strand of sweat-drenched hair away from your face, and repeat the story you've been clinging to since you entered this curs'd land: although there's good eating on a tortoise, it's vitally important they be boiled thoroughly.
The hairiest of the three sharpens and with a shock you recognise Alan Moore. Then you notice the other two and ice water flushes through all your marrows - this thaumaturgic tomfoolery must be far more serious than dodgy guts from an undercooked reptile.
Now that your hallucinations have started to include a zombie boy genius and a box that walks like a man, the whole being-stabbed-twenty-three-times-with-an-enchanted-blade at the start of your adventure is looking a lot more likely to be what's causing the dreadful metamorphosis that you can feel beginning deep in your boots.
Did you acquire the old man's brass ring earlier?
If so, slip it on your finger, start rubbing and click here.
If you didn't then your back arches like a piece of nationalistic architecture and you become a creature composed equally of darkness, smoke, evil and melodramatic laughter. You begin to drift towards the trio of cowering shapes.
None of them have any cake.
Possess them all at once? Click here.
Possess the box first? Click here.
Possess Alan Moore first? Click here.