Marna Froehn, Masalian diplomat
1747PE
The festival was a rhythmic soup of arms and drums and legs and drums and somersaults followed by ever more drums. When the vintage overtook me and my senses could process no more, I stumbled off to a quiet corner where I could rest and doze off for a few. I awoke, several hours later, and they were still dancing. With no visible signs of stopping any time soon.
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