The Pale Exile
The fog does not lift in the district of Blackwood, it merely thins enough to reveal the jagged teeth of the ironworks and the skeletal remains of the railway lines that once pumped the lifeblood of the empire into these hollowed-out lungs of a dying city. You stand at the edge of the platform, your boots heavy with the wet sludge of a Tuesday afternoon, and you feel the weight of the brass...
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