The Distant Cartograph
You are standing in the middle of the wet, gray floor of the Grand Hall, your boots slick with the condensation that weeps from the high, arched ceiling, and the only sound is the rhythmic, metallic clanging of the steam presses that line the far wall like the ribcages of some vast, sleeping beast. The air smells of burnt sugar, hot copper, and the stale, medicinal tang of the black licorice...
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