The Golden Visit
The mud beneath your boots is black and slick, tasting of iron and old rot, and the rain has turned the forest floor into a labyrinth of slurry that sucks at your ankles with a patience you find disturbingly familiar. You are running, though your legs feel less like flesh and more like wet sandbags, and the sound of your own breathing is a wet, ragged tearing that echoes in the hollow of your...
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