The Wistful Incense
Mara walked. The mud sucked at her boots. It was cold. The rain fell hard. She carried a pot. The pot was iron. It was black. It was heavy. She lived in the Hollow. The house stood alone. It was old. The wood was gray. The windows were blind. Inside, the air was thick. It smelled of damp wool and fear. Mara was a prisoner. Not of chains. Of hunger. Her stomach growled. It was a low sound. It...
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