The Distant Blade
The mud of the field is not just dirt. It is a living thing, a sucking mouth that pulls at your boots and tries to drag you down into the cold earth. You feel the weight of the sword in your hand, the iron cold against the palm of your gauntlet. It is a strange weight. Heavier than it looks. Lighter than it feels when you swing it. You are Thomas Bradshaw, though here, in the grey mist that...
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