The Wistful Voyage
The candle gutters in the draft, casting long, skeletal shadows across the vellum where you sit, your right hand trembling so violently that the quill skitters like a spider across the page, leaving a jagged, black scar that you must scrape away with a knife before you can begin again. You look up, your eyes burning with the fatigue of three sleepless nights, and speak to the Abbot who stands...
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