The Pale Exile
Act I Bjorn Nystrom scrubbed the ink from his left palm with a rag that had once been a shirt, the fibers turning black under the friction. The monograph lay open on the desk, pages smeared with a wet, viscous dark that defied the blotting paper. He was forty-five, an ice-haul engineer by trade, but the village knew him for the dialects he recorded, the words he tried to pin down before the...
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