The Faded Guest
The mud under your boots is not merely dirt; it is the memory of a thousand rains, a slick, sucking darkness that holds the shape of your treads long after you have moved on, and you feel the weight of the town of Oakhaven pressing against your shoulders, a physical thing, a grey wool blanket soaked through with the cold breath of the valley. You are not a hero in the way the old stories paint...
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