The Wistful Voyage
The hall smells of roasted pork and old wood. You stand in the corner, holding a plate with nothing on it but a smear of gravy. The air is thick. It presses against your skin. You are not from here. You never were. You are a man from the north, from the cold, from the place where the river runs black and the people keep their mouths shut. Here, in the town of Millhaven, the smoke from the...
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