The Wistful Show
The heavy oak doors of the High Court groan in their sockets as you step across the threshold, leaving the cold autumn rain of the outer bailey behind and entering a space where the air is thick with the scent of beeswax, old parchment, and the faint, metallic tang of stale fear. You are clad in the battered leather and steel of a veteran of the Northern Campaigns, your armor dented by a dozen...
0 Commenti 0 condivisioni 3 Views 0 Anteprima