The Wistful Incense
The road into the Valley of Ash did not end; it dissolved. You know this, or perhaps you are only beginning to suspect it, as you drag your feet through the silt that tastes of copper and old rain. The sky above is not a sky at all, but a ceiling of bruised purple, low-hanging and suffocating, pressing down on the spires of the Citadel of St. Jude. It is a place where the air is thick with the...
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