The Wistful Saga
The ink is black as a bruise, and the parchment is stiff with the cold of the cellar where I keep it. I am Brother Elias, and I have been a scribe for forty years, but never have my hands trembled so violently as they do now, copying the names of the dead into the *Liber Vitae*. The year is 1342, and the winter has set in with a bitterness that seems to seep through the stone walls of St....
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