The Wistful Asylum
Thorne! Keep your hands off the railing, you fool, or the whole lot comes down! The shout came from the shadows above, jagged and wet, but I did not look up; I was too busy wrestling the grey mass that had coiled around my left forearm, a substance that felt less like mist and more like cold, wet wool soaked in vinegar, biting into the skin until the nerves screamed. I am Elias Thorne,...
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