I tried to evade the excesses of a burgomaster who was co-sponsoring his regime by means of proclamations. This one vented his lust by consummating the advance against his daughter. I was ostracized, after the threat of unmasking the transgressor and leading the country to sedition.
I rode through the bends of a snowy forest, depository of vermin and eccentric flora, and whose terrain would conceive narratives for the fable. I verified the absence of shelter in its surroundings by not placating the heaviness of the trip.
My definitive establishment would be the hamlet indifferent to the regency of the day.
I found a dwelling in the suburbs and at the edge of a lake that promised dawn in the spring. The locals told me about the cursed nature of the place, a favorite for the rites of an apprehensive society. I countered such a fallacy with a gesture of disdain.
Having guided the course to my stay, the custodians of the emblem of St. Bartholomew capitalized voices in unison, recreating another overpowering vocal presence. They interrupted the procession to settle at the foot of the window. I spotted the silk trait in the white tassels. The priest -distinguished for wearing the dalmatic-, encouraged by honoring his faith, arranged the ordeal while with his index finger he pointed out the interest of the mockery.
I suffered the torment of the foreigner.

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