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It was misty on a mid-summers night. Cold and damp and I was riding on my horse, it was blacker than the night sky. I passed a stranger as I rode on. He stared then followed me for hours, never taking a rest. As I rode on I cam upon another stranger standing in the bewitching mist, the stranger did yet the same as the first. Both strangers, dressed the same, in black. Now I ride with two strangers in the mist. I'm on a journey to the nearest town out of this misty fores, so big, so dark, so scary and wierd.

On I ride in the mist with the two strangers following the path that I cut in the mist. As I ride and as they follow, we pass another stranger, he follows also. I have a tail of strangers in the mist. They talk in a language that I can't speak, I am nervous, shaking all over not knowing who they are or why they follow. These strangers in the mist.

Another hour and mile into my journey, I came upon yet another stranger standing in the chilling mist. I see a town in the distant sunlight, it was wierd because it was night in the misty forest.

The four stranger are planning to attack, I could tell by the sound of their actions. They're getting louder by the minute, these strangers in the mist. They're getting closer by the minute, almost flying they are. Closer, closer, and yet closer, faster than any man could go.
They attacked me, biting and ripping off my flesh like a pack of ravenous wolves. I could feel my soul leaving my body fast. I can't hold on any longer. I'm dying right at the gates I am or was. I never made my way through the gates of the town I aimed for. For I died at the gates. The gates of my sanctuary, my place of refuge. I died at the gates of Destry.

Daedron
February 16, 2002

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