The Pale Verdict
The banquet hall of Castle Ironwood did not smell of food, but of wet wool and old fear, a thick, cloying atmosphere that pressed against the skin like a heavy shroud woven from the breath of a hundred silent guests who sat upon the tiered benches in the dim, flickering light of tallow candles that burned with a sickly, greenish hue as if the flame itself were dying of a slow, invisible disease...
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