The Faded Portrait
The feast in the Citadel of St. Jude was a cacophony of clashing steel and the wet, sucking sound of porridge being devoured by men who had forgotten the taste of bread. Sir Alistair, his armor dented and stained with the black ichor of the Whispering Rot, stood apart from the revelry, his eyes fixed on the great oak table where the final ingredients for the Elixir of Clarity lay scattered. He...
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