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Old Crow found it amusing the fables and whispered stories that the humans carried with them.

Bone simple facts ignored, shrugged off as fake, but the fairytale writings of generations long dead held up to a staggering standard.

Old Crow was happy to leave them tilting at their windmills and slaying their dragons.

He grew stronger the blinder their eyes became.

What real fight could one put up on their knees, their hands folded in prayer?

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