The Golden Greenhouse
The air in the hall tastes of stale beer and wet wool, a thick, suffocating blanket that presses against your lungs as you sit at the far end of the long oak table, surrounded by the laughing, red-faced lords and ladies of the manor who look at you with a mixture of pity and bored amusement, their eyes sliding over the tattered, mud-caked cloak you are wearing, a garment that was once a...
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