The Faded Masquerade
The rain on the cobblestones of the old city did not fall so much as it hung in the air, a fine, grey mist that clung to the wool of my cloak and seeped into the marrow of my bones, a constant, cold reminder that the world was wet and indifferent to the dryness of the soul. I stood at the threshold of the tavern, the wood of the door frame slick under my gloved hand, listening to the murmur of...
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