The Pale Mist
You stand before the iron gate of the Abbey of St. Jude, the metal cold and slick with the morning dew that has settled so thickly in the valley that the world feels submerged in a pale, silent fog, and you remember how the villagers in the lowlands had called your kind, those who walk the boundary between the living and the dead, the keepers of the threshold, though the word they used was...
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