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May 17, 2005
The Eschatologist: Confessions
Old, bearded Bertilak could feel the weight of age bearing down as he stared into the roaring firepit, sparks twinkling in his wild eyes for the last time.
"Damned fool," he muttered, leaning on his Danish axe for support. He stroked his chin with a green-hued hand, running his fingers through whiskers that his wife, many years dead, had chided him as resembling a beaver.
He chuckled quietly as he recalled her quick wit and quicker tongue, knowing he'd be joining her soon. Despite his sins, this was no way, he mused, for a Knight to come to his end.
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