The Pale Banner
The great hall of the iron foundry did not smell of steel or sulfur, as one might expect from a place built to forge the bones of the modern age, but of wet wool, stale beer, and the metallic tang of old blood that seemed to cling to the walls no matter how many times the scrubbers dragged their pails through the grime. It was a feast, or at least it was meant to be, a celebration of the new...
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