The Faded Masquerade
The rain had not ceased for three days, a relentless, gray curtain that turned the cobblestones of the old quarter into slick mirrors reflecting the gas lamps and the weary faces of those who dared walk the streets, and in the shadow of the crumbling archway that once marked the entrance to the Merchant’s Guild, a man sat with his back against the cold stone, holding a mask of white porcelain...
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