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ethela penna

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  1. Hawke, Ghosts again. Or demons. You know. Evil, again. Someone has been gnawing at the apple. Reprieve is just a dream. No need for coordinates this time: Outpost Grey on Biazo. To the just, Jericho. The fence had been electrified, once upon a time. It had been meant to dissuade people who didn’t know any better — and those who did — from climbing down the infamous cliffs of Okimon Bluff. Infamous, and famous, in the climber’s circles for being the most difficult of all cliffs in the world to scale. It was no longer electrified. And clearly the cliffs had not been enough of a challenge. Hawke touched the twisted edges of the hole in the fencepost he waited by. Something was out there now, the containment of which the fence had inadvertently been turned to in previous weeks. Well, misfortunes are a natural part of the world, and for every justice there was something unjust to begin with. For wrongs to be made right there would have to be a wrong. No one is a god enough to upset that order. Whatever climbed up out of Shiddidark and ran out — however many whatevers — would be found and contained in due time. For now, the basin itself was priority. The mist-sea spread out just fifty or a hundred feet beneath. Every so often gnarled tips of the oldest trees stuck out to perturb the rippling veil, but otherwise it was purely blank, almost entirely opaque. The sky was sunny up here; things would be different down there. Yes, the wind traced ripples along the surface of the mist-sea, waves lapping at the bluffs up here; it must have been icy still down there. Above and below. The two worlds were not often incident. It looked all right, Hawke thought. It looked perfectly all right. Lessons learned provided that sticking noses in mousetraps never ended too well for the human race. Though that was just about what they were going to do.
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