The Wistful Saga
The mud of the valley floor is cold and slick, sucking at your boots with a wet, desperate hunger as you press your back against the rough bark of the ancient oak, the smell of pine resin and blood thick in the humid air, while the echo of the heavy cavalry drums from the Lord’s garrison still thuds in the hollows of your chest like a second, slower heartbeat that refuses to stop. You are...
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