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. . .
Nine strangers came from the north, from Tarsis they said. The
guards noticed them some distance from the camp, their colorful
robes and thin animal skins making them stand out like spring
flowers against the whiteness of the glacier.
I did not wish to join those sent to meet the intruders. With the
talk of raiding bands of minotaurs, I was forging the Ice Folk's
favored weapon, the fros-treavers, as quickly as possible. Even so,
the making of each one still took many, many days. I was alone in
my work since, as cleric of the Ice Folk, I am the only one on
Krynn with the knowledge, passed down through my family, of
how to forge these remarkable battle-axes from solid chunks of
incredibly dense ice. I hoped to complete the one I was working on
before the sun left the sky, so I kept my face down when our
leader came searching for men to go confront the strangers. It
didn't work. For reasons of his own, the Great Harald ordered me
to join the party.
Grumbling, I snatched up my staff and pack of curatives before
heading for the harbor. Almost absent-mindedly, I poked the
frostreaver I was working on into the pack. I have no idea why I
did that, since I was not strong enough to use it. I had seen sixty
winters, and my muscles just weren't what they used to be.
Besides, my job would be to moderate with the strangers, not fight
them. Although I was once the most knowledgeable guide among
the Ice Folk, I saw less and less of the world beyond the camp as
the years went by
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