The Faded Portrait
The fog does not merely sit upon the valley; it possesses it, a thick, gray wool that suffocates the sharp edges of the world and renders the ancient stone walls of the keep into mere suggestions of mass, and you stand at the center of this suffocating embrace, your hands resting not upon the hilt of a sword, but upon the cold, unyielding surface of a oak table that has witnessed a century of...
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