The Wistful Witness
The road to the highlands was not a road at all, but a scar of crushed granite and frozen mud that snarled through the mist like a living vein, and you walked it with the heavy, deliberate gait of a man who has long since accepted that his legs are merely vessels for the transport of his consciousness toward an inevitable dissolution, for you were the Keeper of the Boundary, a man whose very...
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