The Golden Farce
The ink on your parchment is moving again. You watch with a detached, professional horror as the black fluid bleeds outward from the center of the district you are currently charting, forming a shape that is unmistakably your own left hand, severed at the wrist. The paper is damp, the air in the cartography office is thick with the scent of mildew and iron, and the fog outside the window...
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