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Once the dwarven community might have slumbered
peacefully under winter's cloak, its residents content to
await the coming of spring. But now it was just past the
early winter sunset, and the town churned with energy in
the chill darkness. Hammers pounded at forges, horses
hauled their wagons through deep, sticky mud, merchants
eagerly readied their wares for sale to the derro preparing to
return to Thorbardin.
Basalt thought about going home, but the picture of his
stern Uncle Ruberik stopped him. Ruberik never ceased
berating Basalt about drinking. In fact, the ruder the young
dwarf got, the more persistent the elder became about nag-
ging. The family home, a guilt-ridden shell since his father's
death, seemed like a nest of enemies now, and Basalt
couldn't face it.
So Basalt sat on the wide steps of Moldoon's, mindless of
the icy wind that blew through the valley. In a way, given his
bleak mood, the chill wind almost seemed a friend, sharing
his troubles and misery.
As Basalt sat with his chin in his hands, staring down the
street, he saw a small, familiar wagon churning up the
muddy lane
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