The Wistful Asylum
The fog does not roll in from the sea here, as it does in the stories your grandfather told you by the fire, but rises instead from the black, rotting mud of the moor, a cold breath that smells of iron and old blood, wrapping around your ankles like the hands of the dead who have not yet fully let go of the living world, and you are standing in the center of the Great Hall of the Citadel of...
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