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. Probably cozying
up to some hill dwarf's daughters... if he's still alive.
Garon Wendesthalas stood in thought, looking at the
forked trail, then back the way they had come. "I think
I'll leave you here, Wingover," he said finally.
"Why?"
"Oh, just to sit and watch the traffic. Maybe we'll meet
farther along, somewhere."
Wingover scratched his bearded chin. "It's those gob-
lins, isn't it?"
"They might be coming along here." Garon shrugged,
then a cold smile spread across his elven face. "I still have
plenty of arrows, and nothing better to do."
"That's why you came, isn't it?" the man said, perhaps
a bit sadly. "You said there might be more goblins."
"Have a nice outing, Wingover." The elf turned away.
"Maybe we'll meet again." In the somber elven eyes, just
as they turned from him, Wingover saw something cold
and determined. Something deadly. This elf had a pure
hatred for goblins.
"I hope we do meet again," he said.
Another mile down the trail, Wingover turned to look
back. There was no sign of the elf... but then, there
wouldn't be. No one was likely to know he was there un-
til he was ready to show himself.
Distant movement caught Wingover's eye then, and
he peered westward. The man shaded his eyes. Far in the
distance, something was moving.
As Wingover's eyes adjusted to the distance the object
grew from a small speck of white to a bigger speck of
white
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