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Orias, routed from his home anew sputtered about a desolate and makeshift hole he'd been living in, if one could even call it such, glossed over the hem of a fresh wound, concealed by a thick layer of worn fabric and cloth. This object conjured an ambivalence of regret and wroth within his scarred conscious, an embroidered branding eternally bespeaking his sins and fickle nature. He thought of a similarity betwixt his old mentor, one whom he held much veneration for, yet had forsaken in his covet for power, and of his recent torturer, the giver of his perpetual wound, but on second thought dismissed the matter as another anomalous reverie, something he found himself doing oft in the confinement of these drab, muddied walls. He pondered where the crazed instructor had wandered off in the vast years of their abstinence , He pondered of his death, and of his imprisonment, hitherto settling to discard the topic at hand, for he had a much larger thing clouding his mind. Revenge.
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