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She lay there idly for a long while before lazily rising, her black hair smooth as silk cascading down one shoulder.
There was a piece of paper on the table, written upon it in tiny, ornate seal script was a poem.
The last two lines "Looking back at where the eagle was shot, a thousand miles of evening clouds soothe." she played with for a long time, very much liking them. The affect of the lines alone might not have been so profound, but yesterday an arrow had been shot, ...
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