The Pale Banner
The cellar smelled of wet stone and rot. It smelled of the earth’s own lungs, heavy and damp. I stood among the rows of casks. My hands were stained. The sap had soaked into my skin. It was a dark, bruised purple. I had been working for three days. My back ached with a dull, rhythmic pain. The air was still. It was thick with the scent of pine resin. I was a tanner. I was also a man at war. The...
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