The Wistful Ashes
The rain here does not fall; it hangs, a thick, grey curtain that smells of wet rust and sulfur, and you are trying to keep your footing on the slick cobblestones of the Lower Quarter while the steam vents hiss their hissing warnings around you. You are running, not with the frantic, gasping desperation of a man being hunted by dogs, but with the steady, rhythmic urgency of a man who has...
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