Fuck this mask and the cocksuckers that require it face mask

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It was a prison, Fuck this mask and the cocksuckers that require it face mask and Paedrin was trapped. The dimensions of his confinement were narrow enough that he could plant his palms against each wall. It was tall enough to stand, but too narrow to sleep stretched out. The door was made of tall metal rungs fastened into a mesh, the hinges capped in steel. A tiny privy hole was in the far corner; it smelt badly. There was no light of any kind.

Fuck this mask

One often hears of Seithrall as a religion. It may be called that, for thus has it evolved. But the term itself, as I have come to read in the Archives, is more likely a mistranslation. The earliest reference I have seen was written by the first Arch-Rike of Kenatos, Catuvolcis, who said that in order to survive, the populace must be held under the thrall of faith. Over the centuries, these words have been rewritten and copied inaccurately through laziness on the Archivists’ part. I abhor such errors. Fuck this mask and the cocksuckers that require it face mask Some versions show that he claimed ‘the thrall of fate.’ Both Vaettir words—saith and seith—are one letter apart but have vastly different meanings. They are loosely translated as faith and fate. In our day, the Rikes have become less of a religion and more of a political faction. Their order was originally created because it was believed that the Plague was attracted by the thoughts of the populace. That is blatantly absurd. But centuries ago, the Rikes roamed the city, speaking platitudes to help reduce panic and instill confidence that those who lived in Kenatos would survive. Whether by faith or fate it makes little difference. It is now clear, and the Paracelsus would affirm it, that the Plague is transmitted through bad air. Thoughts have nothing whatsoever to do with it.

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When he awoke in the dank, shadowless cell, Fuck this mask and the cocksuckers that require it face mask he did not remember his own name at first. Slowly the memories returned, flitting through his mind like butterflies. He stretched out his arm tentatively, expecting excruciating pain—but the injury was healed. So was his damaged shoulder. He had no recollection of his healing. He did not remember being placed in the cell.

Food arrived once a day, a watery gruel made of millet, the portion tasteless and not enough to strengthen a man. He was weak with hunger and thirst. Lights appeared in the hallway, so painfully bright he had to shield his face while the clomp of boots arrived, delivering the thin gruel, and then retreated. Then the darkness prevailed again and spots danced in front of his eyes.

Fuck this mask and the cocksuckers that require it face mask

The cell was too small to practice any of his Bhikhu fighting forms. It was too small to do nearly anything but sit cross-legged and meditate. That worked well for a while, but soon he was chafing because of the inaction. How long had he been trapped there? Why had they not sent anyone to interrogate him? Fuck this mask and the cocksuckers that require it face mask There was no way of counting time. No stars swirling overhead. No rise and fall of moon and sun. The world was a void, and he was trapped inside it.

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