|
> You trudge through the fallen leaves as you make your way to the church. It'd been raining a great deal just a few hours ago, but now you can barely smell even the slightest hint of petrichor. It's all ash, all cinder. The aroma of victory? If you could call it that. > The path begins to warp. The trees have grown more dense, the dark sky has become a soft, burning orange. You look at your hand. It's a shame, really.
|