To My Cousin Dalen, The rains have come late this year, and the fields crack like old pottery. Yet even in such hunger, Friar grows louder with song. Explorers pass...
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To the Hand That Holds the Dagger, I do not waste words, so hear me plain. Friar grows soft. The Explorers strut about with their relics and their victories, and...
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My Dearest, It is with trembling hand and wandering thought that I take to parchment, for though the cycles of Solunus pass like the slow toll of some cosmic clock,...
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