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. Flint glanced
with barely concealed scorn at the inferior, worn battle-axe
now resting in his hands. The weapon bore only the most
superficial resemblance to the great Tharkan Axe. Where
that enchanted blade had shone with the glow of perfect
steel, its edge ever sharp, his current weapon showed the
pocks of corrosion. The wooden handle was thin and worn,
long overdue for replacement.
Yes, it would feel good to see the rest of his family, as well,
Flint had to admit. Aylmar had been patriarch of the clan
since Flint was a youth, when their father had died of the
Fireforge hereditary heart condition, leaving behind a wife
and fourteen children. Flint's work-worn mother had passed
on some twenty-odd years ago, which was the last time Flint
had been to Hillhome, for the funeral.
Aylmar had a wife, Flint knew, though he could never re-
member her name. And at least one son, young Basalt. Flint
remembered his nephew quite clearly. Basalt had been an
enthusiastic youngster, somewhat of a hellion. Aylmar had
grown dour with age and responsibilities, and he disap-
proved of his son's prolific time in the alehouse and gaming
hall
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