The Pale Exile
The iron gate screams against the rusted hinges, a sound like a dying beast, as you stand before the threshold of the Ashworth Estate. The fog is thick here, clinging to the cobblestones and the high walls that enclose the manor, a grey shroud that swallows the gaslight before it can find its way to the street. You do not look back. You cannot. The thing that follows you is not a shadow, nor a...
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