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Miklan dies a monster in and out, hand still clutched tight around the lance that killed him. The lance, true to its name, stands tall and cruel above the carnage, a grim standard behind which to rally.
Sylvain, a monster only in, wields it better than his brother ever could.
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In the dissolving remains of the Wandering Beast, Blutgang sticks out like a bird of ill omen. It is ugly even by moonlight, a crooked thing of steel and bone; a story of wickedness and betrayal given shape.
It fits into Marianne’s hand like it was always meant to be.

Account Deleted Sun 19 Jul 2020 05:01PM UTC
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Mossy_Birch (Mossy_Bench) Tue 21 Jul 2020 01:54AM UTC
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