The Astarte of the B

Lane tightened his grip on the reins, earnestly urging his mount forward.,Sarcasm turned to panic, the farmer cried out, as if he had seen some terrible contagious disease, some horrifying filth, and retreated again and again.,Lane sighed inwardly, barely perceptibly. He could only comfort himself mentally: come on, a magical medieval era is still the Middle Ages.。