The Wistful Throne
The iron tastes of rust and old blood, a metallic tang that coats your tongue and refuses to be washed away by the cold stream water lapping against the base of the fortress wall. You are not alone in the mud. Around you, the air is thick with the smoke of burning thatch and the wet, heavy scent of crushed earth, while the distant roar of the siege engines shakes the very stones of your boots....
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