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. He paused to get his bearings.
For a moment he wondered if he had come to the right
place. Up close, Hillhome looked even less like the town in
his memory than it had from the ridge. The same large
buildings - the mayor's mansion, the trading barn, the
brewery - still dominated the central area. But around them
clustered a mass of lesser structures, tightly packed, as if
each was trying to shoulder the other aside.
Most of these newer buildings were made of wood, and
many showed signs of uncharacteristically hasty construc-
tion and shoddy workmanship. The town square was still a
wide open space, but where it had once been a tree-shaded
park, now it was a brown and barren place.
Flint's eyes came to rest on Moldoon's Tavern across the
street. A happy sight at last! A young frawl was standing at
the back of an ale wagon parked out front, hefting two half-
kegs onto her shoulders. She struggled her way up the two
wooden steps and into the inn, the door of which was held
open by a large, middle-aged dwarf.
Flint well remembered the rugged human, Moldoon, who
had opened his inn in quiet Hillhome
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