The Faded Masquerade
The road does not end; it merely dissolves into a fog so thick it has weight, pressing against your chest like a damp wool blanket soaked in the rain of a century you cannot name. You walk with your boots heavy, the mud sucking at your heels with a rhythmic, gluttonous hunger, pulling you down into the earth that seems to breathe in time with your own labored lungs. This is the Borderland, that...
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