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. I'd had good times and
bad, pockets filled with gold and just as often empty. In
Istar they called me "Hunter-Doune," and I was good at my
work.
Fair quiet it was in Beggar's Alley that evening, but for
the minotaur cursing and panting on the cobbles. Rats ran
in the filthy gutters. Tumbledown shacks and unpainted,
drab houses huddled together, empty and looking lonely. At
sunset the panderers and pickpockets did a better trade over
by the great temple. From a distance - beyond the alley,
beyond the market and the slave auction - rose a hymn, a
gathering of elven voices, as soft and sweet as any dream of
what song should be. The holy choir was beginning
evening devotions. Elven women, famous throughout the
world for their piety, lifted eerily pure voices in praise to
the gods of good. Tonight they celebrated wise Paladine
and his gentle, compassionate Mishakal.
The minotaur, struggling to his feet again, lifted his
dark, homed head. He spat in the direction of the temple. I
should have kicked him for it, but because no one was near
to see what could be considered my own heretical
omission, I let the minotaur have his way. I wasn't one for
tormenting prisoners. It's bad business
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