Altdorf was not a pleasant-smelling place at the best of times. Even its own inhabitants had taken to calling the city on the river Reik “The Great Reek,” which said something about the typical Altdorfer’s sense of civic pride. Sergeant Lang, who had recovered from civic pride the same way other people recovered from the Galloping Trots, was a connoisseur of Aldorf’s various odours. He knew the fish and eel smells of Marketplatz, the smell of burning traitors from Crackle Hill, and the smells of booze, desperation and, oddly, cheese that permeated the Street of Many Taverns.
Today the city was teaching him a new smell: a mixture of river mud and death.
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The WizardIn time, you will come to know the tragic extent of my failings... Past Journals
September 2017
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