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The Old Gods Wander Your promised lands with reticence. Grey, forced benevolence. They shrug their crumpled robes, extend in veinous hand black cornucopia. You're fighting back, it's evident, bony protrusions, a thumping chest, the clamming up of sweaty pearls. They aim at your Olympian head. There, in the meadows of your mind, grazing on dewy hurt, they defecate a premonition of impending doom.