The Wistful Mountain
The road to the Abbey of St. Jude’s is not a road at all, but a scar in the earth, a ribbon of packed mud and ancient stone that winds through the mist like a vein beneath skin, and you walk it with the heavy, rhythmic thud of your boots, the leather of your armor creaking in protest against the damp cold that seeps into your very marrow. You are a soldier of the Order, a man of iron and...
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