The Pale Banner
The mud is thick. It sucks at your boots with a wet, deliberate pull, as if the earth itself is trying to keep you down. You are running. You are always running. The air tastes of iron and old smoke. Behind you, the roar of the crowd is a living thing, a beast that chews on your spine. They are shouting your name, but the syllables are wrong. They sound like insults. They sound like prayers you...
0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 1 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen