The Distant Crown
The rain did not fall so much as it hung, a suspended curtain of grey mist that blurred the edges of the moor and swallowed the world beyond the treeline. Elias Thorne stood at the center of the bog, his boots sinking into the sucking peat with a wet, organic groan that seemed to echo in his own chest. He was a man of forty, with the stooped shoulders of a ledger-keeper and eyes that had long...
0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 3 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen