The Pale Exile
The rain on the moor does not wash the dirt away; it only presses the grime deeper into the pores of the earth, and into your skin. You are walking the old track, the one that leads from the stone circle of Barnaby’s Hollow to the ruins of the priory, a path that has been worn smooth by centuries of feet and now by the heavy, deliberate tread of your own. You carry no map. Maps are for those...
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