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Ill
The mage said nothing about the feeder, having
forgotten it among more important things. In the mom-ing
the company of beings journeyed again through woods to a
road. On the way they called each other by name, and the
feeder linked names and voices: River-wind, Goldmoon,
Tasslehoff or Tas, Raistlin, Caramon, Sturm, Tanis, Flint.
The way before them was hard, and the feeder smelled
their sweat and, beneath it, their blood.
The feeder grew impatient, then frantic. Sometime in the
night it felt the first movements of its brood, growing and
dividing. By mid-day the feeder was flushed with new life
from point to cross-piece, and the tiny bodies were
expanding even into the hilt. It had fed well, and this would
be a large brood - if it found a host in time.
Squirming uncomfortably against the thongs, the feeder
discovered new urgency, the reward of feeding and the
necessity of birthing. Its jaws on the snake's-head pommel
were separating from each other, and it could feel its fangs
growing, filling with venom.
Nature had provided well; once sated on dead flesh, its
children could kill any being on Krynn. The feeder
struggled helplessly, unable to control its need for birthing
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