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. Already, the chill was creeping back.
But there lingered on the air, still, the faint fra grance of
lilac, of spring. . . .
Shrugging, Raistlin turned and walked out into the
snow-blanketed forest.
The Wayward Inn looked its best in summer, a season
that has this happy influence on just about anything and
everyone. Great quantities of ivy had been persuaded to
cradle the inn in its leafy, green embrace, thus hiding some
of the building's worst deficiencies. The roof still needed
patching; this occurred to Slegart every time it rained when
it was impossible to go out and fix it. During dry weather,
of course, it didn't leak and so didn't need fixing. The
windows were still cracked, but in the heat of summer, the
cool breeze that wafted through the panes was a welcome
one.
There were more travelers at the inn during these
journeying months. Dwarven smiths, occasionally an elf,
many humans, and more kender than anyone cared to think
about, generally kept Slegart and his barmaids busy from
morning until late, late at night.
But this evening was quiet. It was a soft, fragrant
summer evening. The twilight lingered on in hues of purple
and gold. The birds had sung their night songs and were
now murmuring sleepily to their young
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