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I am a dragon. My fiery mane twists and tangles, remaining unkempt and unpredictable My spine twists and turns in ways it shouldn’t Sketches and unfinished paintings hang from my wall like tapestries.
I speak to the dead, After I have wasted three and ninety lockpicks Just to get a potato out of a long forgotten box. How is it not rotten? I really need to get to Whiterun but Lydia blocks me in the hallway.
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