The Wistful Ashes
The wind did not merely blow across the high moors of the north; it clawed, it stripped, it unmade the very air into a screaming, formless entity that sought to erase all memory of human presence, a relentless and ancient force that had long since ceased to care for the prayers of the living or the bones of the dead, and it was into this howling, whiteout fury that Eamon Blackwood stepped,...
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