The Pale Tale

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2026-08-17 21:31:54 -

The Pale Tale

The hall of the Blackwood manor smelled of roasted venison, wax, and the sharp, metallic tang of blood that had been spilled on the stone floor only hours before. It was a feast, or what passed for one in the winter of 1348, when the air outside was thick with the scent of rot and the bells of the village church rang only for the dead. Sir Thomas Bradshaw sat at the high table, his face a mask...

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