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. He
spent the ninth night, a rainy one, in an isolated, warm, and
nearly empty dwarven inn in the Hills of Blood, where he
rinsed the dusty trail from his body and whetted his appetite
for his impending reunion with his dwarven clan.
His mind lingered less on the rumors of mountain
dwarves in Hillhome and more on memories of the village:
the cozy stone houses lining the broad main street; the sheep
and goats in the surrounding sloping fields; Delwar's forge,
where Flint had first seen the shaping of metal by fire. He re-
called the sense of safety and security that always seemed to
linger like smoke around the kitchen hearth of his mother's
home. And the scent of the thick-crusted, fresh-baked rolls
he and his father would purchase each morning from Frawl
Quartzen's bakery after the cows had been tended. They
were good memories....
Late in the cold afternoon of the eleventh day, Flint's trip
was lengthened by a detour around the Plains of Dergoth.
Prior to the Cataclysm nearly three hundred fifty years be-
fore, the plains held many water holes. When the Kingpriest
of Istar brought the anger of the gods down upon Krynn,
the face of the world was changed, and the land south of Pax
Tharkas turned to desert
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