The Wistful Letter
You are standing in the center of the hall, your hands still slick with the black ichor that oozes from the wounds of the creature you have just torn apart, the smell of copper and old blood hanging thick in the stagnant air, and you know, with a certainty that feels like a physical blow to your chest, that you have made a mistake so profound it will unravel the very fabric of your soul before...
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