The Stranger
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His robes dripped onto the stone floor; the tiny splashes echoing in the empty hall. His hem would occasionally swish in and out of the lamplight if one were to be watching. The stranger carried a pail of something that sloshed about. In the silence of the night no one saw him stumble, or the wet slop over the side of the bucket and onto the wall. Nor that it was more viscous than water and a dark inky black. He didn't stop to clean it up, merely continuing on his way. Leaving a trail of crimson footprints marking his path.



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Series Info