The Pale Tale
The fog in the valley of Aethelgard did not behave like the damp mists of the northern coast, which rolled in thick and cold to hide the rotting hulls of ships, but instead it rose from the black soil like a breath held too long in a dying throat, a pale, viscous substance that clung to the armor of the Watchmen and soaked through their tunics until the fabric weighed as much as the chainmail...
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