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"Welcome, my friend!" Moldoon greeted the dwarf pleas-
antly, wiping his hands on his apron front before he took
Flint's arm and drew him forward. At this time of day, the
place was virtually empty, just a table of three humans in the
center of the room before the fire, and a pair of derro drink-
ing quietly at another.
"Have you a glass of milk for an old dwarf's touchy stom-
ach?" Flint asked, spinning a stool at the bar to his height.
He slipped onto it easily, propping his chin up in his hand.
Moldoon raised his eyebrows and grinned knowingly.
"Don't you mean a touchy old dwarf's stomach?" He
reached under the bar for a frosty pewter pitcher and
poured Flint a mug of the creamy liquid. Flint tossed back
half of it in one gulp.
"I heard your family got together last night," said the bar-
tender, topping Flint's glass again. "You cost me half my cus-
tomers!"
The dwarf smiled wryly, shuffling the mug between his
hands on the bar. Then he remembered the one family mem-
ber who had remained at Moldoon's rather than greet his
uncle. "Not Basalt," he said to the barkeep
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