The Pale Protocol

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2026-08-24 05:37:40 -

The Pale Protocol

The quill feels heavy in my hand, the wood warped by the damp that seeps through the stone walls of the garrison, and I hold it as if it were a bone I have pulled from a field, waiting for the marrow to show. It is the feast of St. Martin, and the great hall of Blackwood Keep is thick with the smoke of roasted boar and the sweat of thirty men who have drunk too much ale, their laughter booming...

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