No. seven of the Gods of my Nightmares
The sky is black as you crawl in the wet grass. It looks like an ordinary salt meadow, but something is not right. It smells of burning plastic. The ropes from ships and bells creak when the wind moves what they are moored to. You are struggling with one of the ropes that is entangled with your leg and with the roots of an old willow tree. She is coming.
Susutzi
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