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"This place okay for This Place," Gorge III decreed, "so
this place This Place." The ceremony ended, he tossed aside
the elk antler. "Get stew goin'," he ordered. " 'Bout time to
eat."
The Lady Drule stepped aside to confer with other
ladies of the clan. There were shrugs and shaking heads.
She paused in thought, gazing into the murky reaches of the
cavern.
"Rats," she said.
Gorge glanced around. "What?"
"Rats. Need meat for stew. Time for hunt rats."
Within moments, small figures scurried all around the
cave and into the tunnels leading from it. Their shouts and
chatter, the sounds of scuffing, scrambling feet, the thuds
of people falling down and the oaths of those who
stumbled over them, all receded into the reaches of the
cavern.
Gorge looked distinctly irritated. "Where ever'body
go?"
"Huntin' rats," the Lady Drule explained.
"Rats," Gorge grumbled. No longer the center of
everyone's attention, he felt abandoned and surly. He
wanted to sulk, but sulking usually put him to sleep, and
he was too hungry to sleep.
It was a characteristic of the race called Aghar, whom
most races called gully dwarves: Once a thing was begun,
simply keep on doing it. When at rest, they tended to stay at
rest. But once in motion, they kept moving. One of the
strongest drives of any gully dwarf was simple inertia.
Thus the rat hunt, once begun, went on and on. The
cave held plenty of rats, the hunting was good, and the
gully dwarves were enjoying the sport . .
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