The Pale Banner
Act I Did the ink know what it was doing, or was it merely the wet cold of the mountain seeping into the paper? Georgi Javakhishvili stood before the High Council, the smell of damp wool and old fear hanging heavy in the air of the preserved parlor, where the dust motes danced in the thin light filtering through the fog-streaked windows. He had come to secure his pension, to prove his loyalty...
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