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. The merchant was thrilled at the
promise of something new to talk about at the Pig Iron
Alehouse. He was also bursting with curiosity about the
mysterious bronzewood stick that seemed to have a life of
its own.
"Bah!" spat the dwarf. "You humans think that you know
everything. My people mined these mountains before you
farmers learned how to grow your nauseating vegetables.
We dig more than potatoes out of the dirt, I'll tell you that
much!"
Martin nodded judiciously, although he knew that the
old hermit's dwarven pride was only momentary. Lodston
lived alone because he had alienated his own people as
much as he had the humans in Digfel. The merchant wanted
to divert the conversation toward the staff. He certainly did
not want to provoke a long-winded discourse on past
dwarven glories and present human frailties.
"That's a fascinating quarterstaff, Nugold," he probed.
"If you tell me how you came by it, I might pay good iron
ingots for it. I've been needing a fine old stick like that!"
Lodston's bearded mouth curled in a sly smirk. Martin's
face was a mere blur to him, but the silkiness in the wily
human's voice betrayed his usual greed.
"How much?" he demanded quickly, cocking his head at
the shopkeeper's fuzzy features
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