The Wistful Letter
The iron gate of the Keep of Aveline shudders under the weight of your shield, the cold metal singing a high, thin note against the damp stone as you drag your body over the threshold, leaving a smear of mud and blood on the pristine flagstones that have known no such defilement for a century. You are not a man who breaks down doors; you are a man who waits for them to rot, but today the rot...
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