The Wistful Asylum
The mud of the valley floor is black and slick, sucking at your boots with a sound that is almost human, a wet, reluctant sigh that matches the rhythm of your own labored breathing. You are Sergeant Elias Thorne, and you are bleeding from a cut above your left eye, the blood mixing with the grime on your face to form a dark, congealed mask that makes you look less like a man and more like a...
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