The Pale Circus
The rain does not wash the mud from your boots, it only deepens the slick, black sludge that clings to the leather, a testament to the long, bruised journey that has led you to the gates of this fortress, a place where the stones seem to breathe with a cold, ancient malice that you have felt in your marrow since the moment you crossed the river. You are not a soldier in the sense that the men...
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