The Wistful Skyline
The ale tastes of copper and old wood, a flavor that coats the back of your throat with a dull, metallic persistence that seems to mimic the chill deep within your own marrow. You sit at the edge of the Guild Hall’s long oak table, the wood worn smooth by generations of elbows, and you watch the Master Smith, Aldous Thorne, raise his goblet to the light as if inspecting a flaw in the glass. The...
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