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."
Tanis, remembering the hard poke in the ribs Caramon
had earned for himself with a similar remark, had offered
only a noncommittal smile. It seemed that where Runne was
concerned some things could only be said avuncularly.
Now, the darkness bordering the edges of those
memories, the half-elf absently stroked the edge of the large
gray feather with his thumb. Tas had been here recently.
Or his pouches had. And those had been ruthlessly
emptied, their contents carelessly scattered. The hot breeze
carried Caramon's deep voice from up the trail and Sturm's
answer. Tanis knew by their tones that they had found no
sign of either struggle or a body. He left the underbrush and
joined Flint where he knelt in the path.
"One more thing, Flint."
The old dwarf took the feather without looking and
added it to the pile of oddly assorted objects to be stuffed
with hard, angry motions into Tas's pouches.
A blade-broken dagger, a blue earthenware ink pot, a
little carved tinderbox, a copper belt buckle that Caramon
had lost somehow and which Tas would swear he'd always
meant to return, a soft cloth the color of dawn's rose, a
bundle of the stiff green feathers Tanis liked best for
fletching his arrows
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