The Pale Shadows
The wind did not blow here; it screamed. It tore at the edges of my cloak, a ragged hem of wool that had seen better centuries, and it bit into the marrow of my bones. I stood on the ridge of the Blackmoor, the earth beneath my boots soft and sucking, like the flesh of a dying man. My lantern, a tin cage of oil and glass, swung in my hand. Its light was a weak, yellow eye in the grey void. It...
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