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Flint closed his hands over the little carving, rubbing the
edges of it with his thumbs. His home, these days, seemed
always to be filled with these oddly assorted young
comrades.
Tanis, the quiet, seemingly young half-elf whose hazel
eyes were alight now with good humor, seemed always to
have been here, though the old dwarf could remember a
time when he wasn't.
Caramon, all six feet of him, had made it his life's duty
to keep Flint's larder as empty as possible. Raistlin, thin
and as cloaked in uneasy mystery as he was now cloaked
by the shadows of the comer he habitually inhabited near
the hearth, was often so silent that one almost forgot he
was there. Almost . . .
And then there was Sturm, taller though slimmer than
Raistlin's brawny twin. This one should have matched
Caramon's high spirits flash for shine. But he did not. Too
grim by half! Flint thought now, watching the young man
working intently over his sword. The weapon must be as
perfect as its master strove to be.
"Tas'll be back," Caramon said, yawning. "How far can
he follow a bird, anyway?"
Tanis, quiet through most of the conversation, got to his
feet and stretched. "Likely not far. It's what catches his eye
after he's lost the bird that will keep him away
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