The Wistful Mountain
The black sap oozes from the weeping stone of the Vael Court, a viscous, tar-like substance that smells of wet wool and old copper, and it is seeping into the pores of your left hand as you try to steady the quill, your fingers trembling with a palsy that the superiors dismiss as mere nervousness but which feels, to you, like a physical weight pressing your digits into the dust of the Silent...
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