Just Another Struggling Writer

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is creeping steadily westward across the sky, casting a warm, orange glow around the otherwise cold stone streets. How much longer does she have before it sinks fully beyond the horizon? How likely is it that a resident (assuming she could even find one) would offer her a place to stay the night?

Swallowing the hopelessness rising in her throat, Mercy set off wandering once more, without any real clear thought or direction for where her feet carry her.

The square with her fountain eventually gives way to a robust marketplace. Stalls line half a dozen alleyways that split off

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