The Wistful Crossroads
The feast is not a celebration of joy but a ritual of endurance, a sprawling, suffocating tableau of roasted boar and spiced ale that smells of smoke and old blood, and you sit at the center of this wooden table, surrounded by the lords and ladies of a court that exists in the grey half-light of a world where the air itself tastes of iron and forgotten oaths. You are the Keeper, the one who...
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