The Faded Root
The mud is not merely wet but alive, a thick, sucking medium that pulls at your boots with the tenacious, blind affection of a starving dog, and you are deep in the center of it, the iron of your breastplate singing a low, discordant note against the air as you swing your sword in a wide, desperate arc that catches nothing but the heavy, humid breath of the forest, the rain falling in sheets...
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