The Distant Metropolis
The glass vial in your hand is warm, the amber liquid inside swirling with a viscosity that suggests it is closer to resin than water, and you hold it up to the flickering candlelight to check for the precipitate that has plagued your last three attempts. This is the tincture, the distillation of nightshade and foxglove and a root you cannot name but which grows only in the shadows of the old...
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