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Picture a quiet Scottish village, Currie, nestled under the shadow of the Pentland Hills, where the wind carries whispers older than the stones. It’s March 20, 1833, and a child is born—pale, fragile, with eyes that seem to pierce the veil of the ordinary. His cradle rocks in the night, though no hand touches it, and the villagers cross themselves, murmuring of curses or gifts too strange to name.
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Recorded in an undisclosed location somewhere in the beautiful woods of Wasilla, Alaska.
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By The Freaky Deaky4.8
171171 ratings
Picture a quiet Scottish village, Currie, nestled under the shadow of the Pentland Hills, where the wind carries whispers older than the stones. It’s March 20, 1833, and a child is born—pale, fragile, with eyes that seem to pierce the veil of the ordinary. His cradle rocks in the night, though no hand touches it, and the villagers cross themselves, murmuring of curses or gifts too strange to name.
-----
+BECOME A PRODUCER: http://bit.ly/3WZ3xTg
Recorded in an undisclosed location somewhere in the beautiful woods of Wasilla, Alaska.
+SUBMIT YOUR (TRUE) STORY:
+WEBSITE & MERCH:
+JOIN THE DISCUSSION:

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