The Golden Farce
The rain in the valley of Aethelgard did not fall so much as it wept, a persistent, gray weeping that soaked into the marrow of your bones and turned the cobblestones of the lower town into slick, treacherous mirrors. You sat in the corner of the tavern, the only establishment in the district that still burned a fire, though it was a sputtering, dying thing, casting long, erratic shadows that...
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