Twenty-Seventh find of the Meaning of life Scavenger Hunt

Traversing catacombs, skulls lining the walls seem alien. Thirty-seconds tour in the sand wars, and then you may discover its treasure. Enough of that, ‘Bombs away’ shaking the shafts supports of their decay, pointless daring escape with empty hands, better power through angry recesses. Couldn’t have done this without local talent because, on pure souls that open the transdimensional portal, one sacrifice is required for the one-way journey free of fire. Didn’t have the time to even register the betrayal, ‘it hurts to be this good’. No wonder my scavenger hunt partner came back crying, “I never could.” Becoming one with gravity waves since, here, it’s all I recognize, too busy tasting with my eyes going blind except for a newly forming eye. All landings hurt, but the second-dimension line holds every stage of it at the same time. I’ve puked, will puke, and am presently puking from the broken ribs; double check for the cyanide can’t be trapped here, better respect the deadline. It’s still fine. The sooner I start coping, continue to cope with this insufferable urgency, and I will find the artifact twenty minutes ago, still unprepared to cope with the challenge of my organ count, and won’t be until twenty minutes from now. Holy shit, map glows, the surprise isn’t in the act, it proceeded to engulf itself for a job about to be well done. “My compass is garbage.” Passing creatures evolving into beings, then into enlightenment, presenting daily life as less than a hassle, yet searching the metropolitan jungle unites the 2D faction to the common threat. Wanna bet the betrayer lies stretched far and wide in every consciousness searching for what they’ve already found and has died, is being murdered and relishing in the oncoming parade in their honor--oh wait. Leapfrogging heads to spelunking in culdoscopes, a holy trope I’m still fairly unaware of. Of course, it’s the staff of a dead pope from a religion they don’t recognize. Getting ready to grab the capsule that’s choking to the afterlife, this dead can’t die here locals carry the convulsive idiot to save their sacred timeline. Not awake until I’m suffering a familiar vacuous finality. Hope the partner knows of the perk hidden in my pocket, coordinates in the bag of an undying hag. Heinous Al Father Guard, now seeing its truest form, I feel I have done the work of a Villain.