The Distant Whispers
You are walking away from the town of Harrowgate, though you have not yet reached the edge of it, and the air smells of wet slate and the metallic tang of the river that bisects the valley, a smell that has settled into your lungs so deeply it feels less like an odor and more like a second heartbeat, a rhythmic thrumming that matches the pace of your quick, uneven steps as you navigate the...
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