The Distant Nightmare
The rain in the valley of Ashwood has a taste, you will learn, that is less like water and more like cold iron filings suspended in a mouthful of stagnant air. It is a taste that coats the back of the throat, a metallic tang that warns of the coming storm, a warning that the old stones of the house are waking up from their long, calcified slumber. You are sitting in the high tower of the manor,...
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