The Distant Legend
The rain did not fall so much as it was exhaled by the sky, a thick, gray mist that clung to the cobblestones of the Old Quarter and seeped into the marrow of those who had no where else to go. It was a cold that did not merely chill the skin but settled into the joints, a persistent, grinding ache that spoke of a body slowly betraying its spirit. Thomas Bradshaw stood on the corner of Weaver’s...
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