The Faded Attic
The feast in the Hall of Whispers was a cacophony of silver and blood, the air thick with the scent of roasted boar and the metallic tang of fear that clung to the linen of the gathered lords. You sat at the far end of the long oak table, your armor still bearing the dust of the border skirmishes, your hands steady even as the wine sloshed in the goblet held by your trembling companion, Lord...
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