The Distant Joke
The leather of Aldous Thorne’s right hand had long since surrendered its natural suppleness, calcifying into a texture that mimicked the rough, dry bark of the ancient oaks which lined the border of the Kingdom of Aethelgard. It was a hand that had held the hilt of a longsword until the calluses fused with the bone, and it was a hand that now trembled not from age, but from the sheer, grinding...
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