The Golden Harbor
The mud of the Blackwood Lane clings to your boots. It is thick. It is cold. You walk. You do not look up. The fog presses against your face like a wet cloth. You carry the satchel. It is heavy. Inside, the bread. The cheese. The wine. These are the gifts for the Lord. Or perhaps they are the bait. You do not know anymore. The distinction has blurred. You are a soldier. You wear the grey tunic...
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