The lone gate guard sits on a stool, leaning on her pike. A lyre plays a lament in a minor key, and it seems that the entire village just heaved a despairing sigh and called it a day. The tavern is hushed with serious drinking, the temple almost indistinguishable from its mausoleum in the kirkyard. Meetings in the street are acknowledged with nods, if at all, and not a merchant in the market seems to care whether a customer shows. A crow calls. A dog barks in the distance.

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