The Wistful Voyage
The wheelhouse of the *Ironclad* was a coffin of brass and glass, suspended in the grey throat of the channel. You stood at the helm. Your hands, wrapped in leather, gripped the spokes. They were cold. The steam hissed. It was a mechanical breath, rhythmic and indifferent. Outside, the fog pressed against the panes. It was thick. It was wet. It tasted of rust and salt. You are Captain Elias...
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