The Wistful Saga
The rain does not fall so much as it is thrown against the windowpanes of the watchtower, a relentless, cold assault that turns the glass into a shifting, distorted mirror of your own face. You are standing at the edge of the cliff, the wind tearing at the hem of your tunic, a garment of coarse wool that has lost its color to the gray sky and the endless, churning sea below. It is a uniform of...
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