Missile trudged through the snow, lantern burning the oncoming dark, as he guided Mercy to an outhouse right outside the tavern. James held a lantern too, limping behind them, the only thing he'd done all evening.
[The dying day was reluctant, the sun still on a sluggish sink, warm rays bleeding over the snow.] The music of the tavern polluted the forest's peace, carried even further by violent wind.
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