They queue. With gaunt faces and bloodshot eyes, weary feet trudge slowly. The line snakes down the hill, back and forth between the Hell Fires, all eyes on the stooped shoulders in front. Silence, but for quiet groans. He watches. Three crimson eyes glow eerily in the dark; all that can be seen of the black Hell Hare waiting in the shadows. Trembling hands lift their offering to the altar, reverently placing it upon the last. Some even shed a single tear. His soul aches. For he knows he is the maker of dreams, but also the breaker of hearts.
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