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Book 1, Chapter 51 Fugitives
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... wriggled, the ones sprouting from its upper half scarlet red and keen as daggers. They were so tightly packed they chattered against each other like a host of blades. It was a show of dominance.
The monster also let off a fetid stench of putrescence. It was an agent of death, so terrifying as to petrify even the most elite soldiers.
Cloudhawk was a model of his upbringing, a denizen of the wastes. Aggression steamed from his bones, and he was by no means a coward… but before this ...
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