The Golden Scar
The rain does not fall here so much as it is imposed upon you, a heavy, grey curtain that blurs the line between the cobblestones and the wet, rotting gutters of the Lower Ward, and you stand at the center of this deluge with your hand wrapped tightly around the hilt of a sword that has not tasted blood in three years, the metal cold and slick against your palm, feeling the vibration of the...
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