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Post by Sir Alexandreu Davinescu on Nov 2, 2018 11:43:20 GMT -6
I've eaten the last of my food. A few miserable beans were all that remained, but even they seemed like a feast. All nutriment leeched into a gallon of soup that I drank like I was trying to quench away the spark of life in my guts.
They're still outside the Royal Archivist's Shelter. I can hear their nails on the door, sometimes. They can smell me, I think.
Even my candles are almost gone. Just a guttering stump for these words. Then it will be dark. Dark and hungry.
In a few days, I'll be forced to venture out. Old table leg for companion and club. I don't know what will happen, then.
Clark records still up to date. The eyeless leer of the last Seneschal's skull mocks my care.
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Post by Gödafrïeu Válcadác’h on Nov 3, 2018 16:38:06 GMT -6
I should have Witt XI archived to every graphical format ever conceived by then.
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