The Blackmoor's Final Crusade
Act I The fog came off the Thames thick as wool, the sort of London fog that swallowed sound and left only the damp and the dark. Arthur Blackwood knelt at the water's edge near Tower Bridge in the hour before dawn, his boots sunk in mud that smelled of coal smoke and something older, something metallic. He had been dragged from his berth in a Wapping lodging house by a sound he could not...
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