High above the roaring mist of Black Spire Falls, the iron-bound oak doors of the cistern gatehouse were barred from within. Inside the vaulted stone chamber, illuminated by the sickly greenish glow of sulfur lanterns, Lord Julian and the rogue flesh-magus Malok stood beside the three open bronze casks of necrotic poison. "When this bile enters the conduits," Malok hissed, his scarred face twisted in fanatical hatred, "the northern wolves…
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