The Golden Farce
The mud is thick and red, clinging to your boots like the blood of a fresh wound, and the iron of your sword bites into the rain-swept air of the valley. You are not thinking about honor, or the King’s distant decree, or the gold that was promised for the head of the man who has just screamed his last breath at your feet. You are thinking only of the cold that has settled into your bones, a...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews