The Wistful Witness
The feast was a riot of salted goose and dark mead, the air thick with the scent of roasting fat and the low, rhythmic thumping of the war-drums that echoed from the courtyard beyond the great hall. You sat at the high table, your hands resting on the polished oak, knuckles white, watching the steam rise from your cup. The torches flickered, casting long, dancing shadows that seemed to whisper...
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