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Flailing his arms desperately, the seeker let out a screech and
tumbled to the planks of the bridgewalk.
Flint was dusting off his hands when his sharp dwarven
ears picked up the familiar "whoosh" of blades being un-
sheathed. Whirling around with stunning quickness, the
stocky dwarf knocked the small daggers from the other
seekers' hands. The metal weapons glinted in the sun as they
flew over opposite sides of the bridgewalk.
"Daggers! Look out below!" Flint called over the railing in
case anyone stood beneath. Looking down, he saw a few
villagers scatter without question, and the blades fall harm-
lessly, point down, into the earth.
When Flint looked up again, he saw the backs of the seek-
ers as they fled, the two toadies pulling their still-hooded,
stumbling leader after them.
"Run home to your mothers, you young whelps!" Flint
was unable to resist shouting. My, but it's a fine day, he
thought, looking up into the blue sky before stepping spirit-
edly into the greengrocer's.
Amos Cartney, a human of some fifty years, owned and
ran Jessab the Greengrocer's