The Faded Quadrant
The clay in your hands is cold and wet, a heavy, visceral mass that seems to pulse with a life of its own, and you are standing in the center of the round, stone-walled kitchen of the keep, the only light coming from the tallow candles that gutter and spit in the drafty air, illuminating the rough-hewn table where you have been working since dawn, shaping the form of a man with a sword, a...
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