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... several unwanted conversations with the whispering trees—they finally reached the outskirts of their destination.
Their home.
Their hell.
Moistvile.
A limp breeze carried the familiar scent of mildew, wet regrets, and despair stew. The long wooden bridge creaked beneath them like it wanted to file a complaint.
Finn carried Majestria, of course. Because walking barefoot on swamp rot was beneath her divine sensibilities.
Chestelle, on the other hand, ...
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