The Faded Quadrant
The cold does not merely touch you in the High Wastes; it invades, a physical weight that settles into the marrow of your bones and refuses to leave, a silent accomplice to the rot that has taken hold of your lungs. You are Sergeant Elias Thorne, or you were, before the uniform became a shroud and the badge a heavy, useless stone in your breast pocket. The landscape stretches out before you, a...
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