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The fallen moon rises, and in the cold reflection a package emerges from the waste. Swelling and gangrene, as if washed with a tourniquet. Dark hope moves inward. Hold the fiber handles, feel the swirling imprint of his soul on your palm. Pull it now! Ripping the sinew, ripping the muscle from the bone, boil their gifts! The yoke has arrived! Pick up the slide and read the words on the face.
It’s time to enjoy your beautiful humor!
Q: What is your favorite medieval sim, Master of Manners?
