The winged ones are after me again. They know I hold a secret and they want it. They want to take it and upload into their precious system. They call it "The Worldly Chronicle"; it asserts and qualifies their voracious appetite for supreme knowledge. I call it perpetual eavesdropping.
I wish to break their Chronicle of accumulated data with the force my own. I will keep my secret safe whilst exposing their's.
They must already know. They assail me with their Furyfeather swarms far more than the average peasant. But I run. I ran from the blackened hills to the forgotten catacombs of the Undercity. Soon I will run again.
But here I am, writing by the thin few beams of daylight that sliver through the cracks; clutching my secret with weathered hands. The winged ones shall not find me so long as I remain lost.
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