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"A bird calls, distant and wounded. The woods are still as death. Quick steam huffs in and out of Geoff’s open mouth. And with that, the dangerous moment seems past. We gather wood and help Tom build his fire. As I pick up spare twigs and dried bracken, I wonder how far our sounds penetrate into the black forest, and how far our shouts echo along the White Road." — from the novel SINFUL FOLK c1tylight5: Untitled | Eirik Havre

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