The Distant Temple
The rain in Harrowgate does not fall; it descends. It is a slow, grey erosion of the sky, soaking into the bones of the town until the cobblestones weep. You walk with a heavy step, your boots caked in the red clay of the upper hills. The mud clings to you, a second skin that smells of iron and rot. You are here to find the temple. Or rather, you are here to be found by it. The town is small, a...
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