The Wistful Atlas
The mud of the Somme does not merely coat the boots; it enters the soul, a cold, grey slurry that tastes of iron and rot, and you, Elias Thorne, Imperial Cartographer and temporary holder of the rank of Lieutenant, find yourself standing waist-deep in this filth with a brass compass in your hand that refuses to point north. The needle spins with a frantic, sickly oscillation, a mechanical...
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