The Wistful Dinner

added blog Literature

2026-08-20 04:14:22 -

The feast is over. The hall is cold. You stand in the center of the room. Your boots are caked in mud. The torches sputter. The light is dying. You look at your hands. They are red. Not with blood. With wine. Or perhaps it is both. You cannot tell. The wine has stained the fabric of your tunic. It has soaked into the skin. It is warm. It feels like life. But it is drying. It is turning black....

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