The Faded Masquerade
The cellar smelled of wet stone and the sharp, metallic tang of old blood, a scent that had long since settled into the very pores of the earth beneath the keep, becoming as permanent and indistinguishable from the limestone as the roots of the ivy that strangled the tower above. Thomas Bradshaw stood in the center of the chamber, his armor dented and dull, the steel no longer reflecting the...
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