The Wistful Voyage
The hall of Lord Aldous Vane smells of roasted boar and wet wool, a thick, suffocating perfume that clings to your skin long after the feast has ended. You stand in the shadows of the great oak pillars, your fingers stained with ink and the dark residue of the alchemical salts you grind for a living. You are a craftsman of small, invisible things, a man who binds the fractured edges of reality...
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