The Wistful Voyage
The dream is not a dream but a waking that has forgotten how to breathe, a thick and suffocating veil of grey mist that presses against the windows of the stone keep, a place that smells of damp wool, old blood, and the metallic tang of fear. You are standing in the center of the circular chamber, your boots sinking into the cold flagstones, and you are not alone. The air is heavy with the...
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