The Wistful Skyline
You are standing in the middle of the great oak table, your feet bare and stained with the red wine of the harvest, and you feel a profound, vibrating lightness that makes you suspect the floor is slowly dissolving into the earth. It is the feast of Saint Jude, the patron of lost causes, and the hall of the Guild of Smiths is thick with the smell of roasting lamb, stale ale, and the metallic...
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