The Wistful Witness
The wind off the moors does not whisper here, it screams, a raw, tearing sound that strips the skin from the world and leaves only the bone of the matter, and you are standing on the edge of the cliff at the very moment the tide begins to turn, holding in your hands the shattered pieces of a chalice that was once whole, a cup made of gold and starlight and the blood of your ancestors, now...
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