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Frustrated, the squirrel flashed his tail once more.
The cat only purred again, the sigh of one who had decided
it best to save a tasty snack for later. He dropped to the
floor and went to preen in the golden splash of late
afternoon sun. Now and then he looked up at the squirrel to
yawn and grin.
The grin was deadly and dark and very confident.
Though the day had been warm, almost springlike, the
weather, as it often did in late winter, had changed swiftly
sometime just before night. Rain poured now from a dirty
gray sky, pounded angrily against the snug roof and walls
of Flint's house. The smell of the vallenwood's wet bark
mingled comfortably with the scent of a cozy fire.
The old dwarf carved a last, feathering stroke on the
small object he'd been whittling all afternoon. Not since he
had started work had he looked at what it was he was
making. There were times, when he was thinking hard
about something, or when he was very peaceful, that he
could simply let his hands take over. The result of his work
then was not craft but art.
The talk that night was desultory and wandering,
aimless paths of conversation that made for no goal but,
more often than not, returned to Tasslehoff's sudden and
urgent departure three days before
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