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."
"That wouldn't be a special problem for Nugold Lodston.
He hates everybody and everything, except gold, that is!"
"That's not any harder to believe than an elf in black
robes, I tell you. If you ask me, it's got something to do
with all that mess in the north."
"Maybe he and this Dalamar like something else about
each other, if you know what I mean!"
The drunken insinuation cut through the underlying
tension of the conversation, causing peals of laughter to fill
the tavern. During the raucous outbreak of crude jokes
about Lodston and Dalamar, a man clad in a rough wool
cloak flipped the hood closer around his face. Then he
tossed an iron coin on the table and left the tavern.
While the patrons of the Pig Iron Alehouse were debating
over the nature of his relationship with Dalamar, Nugold
Lodston was on the other side of Digfel, shaking his stick in
Milo Martin's flushed face. Even his voice had changed in
the last several days, developing an impatient edge and a
curious clipped accent.
"You heard what we want! We'll expect delivery, as
usual, before nightfall!"
"I can't do that, Nugold," Martin insisted. "My cart was
in the blacksmith's shop when you . . . uh, when it caught
fire
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