The Pale Protocol
The ink in my well has begun to freeze, a dark sludge that resists the nib, and I find myself unable to write with the steadiness that was once my pride, for the left hand that holds the quill trembles with a palsy that no amount of will can still. It is the fourteenth of October, 1348, and I, Sir Aldric of the Hollow, write to you, Elara, not as a husband but as a prisoner of my own vanity, to...
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