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At Cathbad's Circle, Another Missive
Affixed by a long sliver of bone thrust through both paper and two low-hanging oak leaves, the scroll, bound in two sprays of brine-steeped pink foxglove, bobs in the breeze:
A treach'rous time to us now falls.
The Wolf, yet chained despite our toils.
Too fell for us in Avendel's walls,
Where Spire hears and earth recoils.
I ken the path through weave and wold.
The Wolf God's freedom does behoove
That eldritch metal shannae hold.
When, then, shall we make our move?
4/20/2013, 6:51 am
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