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“We are naught but bones and dreams, Childe.” His voice came like the shifting of gravel within the earth, old trees crackling in the depths of a forest, a timeworn call from deep within his chest. Eyes stained with moss, blind to what was before him, seeing all that had come before. In the distance, the forest echoed with a rattling of hollow remains in the wandering breeze.
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Pencil, graphite powder, gouache

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