The Distant Legend
The ink in your pot is black, thick, and cold, a substance that seems to possess its own heavy gravity, pulling your quill down into the parchment with a wet, sucking sound that echoes in the small, stone-walled room where the air smells of damp wool and old paper. You are sitting at a desk that is barely large enough to hold the ledger, the blotter, and the single tallow candle that flickers...
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