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Like most dwarves, Flint was not much given to express-
ing his feelings. Not like his emotional friend Tanis, who
was always tormenting himself about something. For Flint,
things either were or they weren't, and there was no point
worrying either way. But every now and then something
could get under his skin, like the uncomfortable feelings
he'd had since returning to Hillhome. Flint shivered in-
wardly and drew his mind back to the wood. He stayed the
afternoon at Moldoon's, slowly, painstakingly shaping his
lifeless piece of lumber into the delicate likeness of a hum-
mingbird. Moldoon refilled his mug now and then, and
soon all was forgotten in the joy of his creation.
The tavern filled steadily with more hill dwarves, and
more wagondrivers replaced the previous group. Flint
scarcely noticed much beyond his sphere, though, so en-
grossed was he in the finishing details of his bird.
"So, it's good old Uncle Flint."
Flint nearly sliced off one of the hummingbird's intri-
cately detailed wings. The sarcastic voice at his shoulder
sounded like animated ice
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