The Distant Cartograph
The rain hits the thatch with a sound like tearing cloth. You are wet. You are cold. The mud sucks at your boots as you stand on the porch of the manor, the rain dripping from the brim of your hat onto the cobblestones. Inside, the fire crackles. It is a good fire. It is a safe fire. You are the law here. You are the shield. You are the sword. You look at your hands. They shake. Not from the...
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