The wraith said not sorry and said not goodbye but fled through a crack in the roof of the sty and made like the dickens for its yonder grave and set its mind working like wood on a lathe. Its plans they were finished in one minute flat for it could not ponder much longer than that and fled back outside its old master to seek in a shadowed tree and by a muddy creek. Its master it found not and soon did not know just why it had ventured out over the snow to float through a landscape it no longer knew but oh well those wraiths are dumb – what can one do?
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