The Pale Banner
Act I Can a man weigh his own soul on a brass scale? I ask you, Pyotr Zaytsev, because the Guild Master, old Ivan, is standing in my doorway with his hands behind his back, and the air in my laboratory smells of rot and the dry wind that cracks the clay pots on my shelves. I am thirty-two, and my hands, stained permanently yellow from the indigo vats, tremble as I hold the vial of the Pale...
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