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Chapter 47: Cruel Mountain VI
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... ike sad little penguins. Where the fuck are the drums? This is a war march. There’s no reason for this depressfest other than poor weather.
Misty snow drifts against us in slow, spiteful sheets of haze, whispering across our faces instead of the cozy black jagged rocks that comprise this mountain. Little gnats of snow pepper my skin, following the rolling winds. The cold reaps the warmth from my every exhale, but I run hot. The flame inside never flinches.
This treacherous hike i ...
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