The Pale Protocol
The ink in the fountain pen has begun to dry, a brown crust forming at the nib, much like the soot that coats the walls of this mill, and I find myself staring at the empty page rather than the words I know I must write, for the banquet last night was a spectacle of such grotesque normalcy that it has left me with a taste of copper and dust in my mouth, a physical residue of the celebration...
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