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The flawless stitches seemed to shrink closer together,
drawing the garment's hem from the floor until it barely
covered the dwarfs boots.
Suddenly, the dark elf's lingering dweomer flooded
Lodston's mind with alien thoughts and impulses, confusing
the dwarf with flashing images of fire, pain, and dark
presences. Just as the psychic turmoil was becoming
unbearable, it stopped. The powerful memories melted and
receded into Lodston's aged brain, merging with his own
dim recollections of the past. A wave of energy swept into
his arthritic limbs, dulling their pain and moving him
toward the door. The black-robed figure that descended the
cliff and strode confidently toward Digfel bore little
resemblance to the reclusive dwarf who made golden toys
for children.
Four days later, the Pig Iron Alehouse was buzzing with
gossip about Lodston and his guest from Sylvanesti.
"He must be an evil sorcerer, part of that trouble in the
north," someone whispered.
"Nobody's ever seen him, but look at old Lodston!"
"I saw him reading a spell from a scroll!" claimed one
witness. "He called up a lightning bolt and set the
blacksmith's shop on fire, just because the smith spat on the
ground when he walked past! Old Lodston always was an
ornery cuss, but never that mean
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