The Wistful Skyline
The rain does not fall so much as it presses, a wet, grey hand against the glass of the watchtower, blurring the world into a smear of charcoal and slate where the town of Oakhaven sleeps beneath the industrial hum of the ironworks. You are standing in the center of the room, your boots heavy with the mud of the lower district, your hands resting on the hilt of a sword that has not been drawn...
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