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.
"No."
Marakion stared at him hard, then turned and left the
inn. Behind him he heard the innkeeper's comment to the
barmaid: "Must'a got his noggin cracked somewhere.
World's full of crazies nowadays."
*****
Gylar awoke the next morning in a better mood. He'd
slept all the previous day and all night. His confusion and
fear were replaced by purpose. He wanted to know why the
gods killed everyone, why they allowed people like his
mother, and like Lutha, to die needlessly. Well, he would
ask them.
The question turned over again and again in his head as he
buried his mother next to the rest of his family. The snow
fell lightly on him and the ground at which he worked. It
was almost as though the skies knew Gylar didn't want to
look at the village anymore.
When his mother was resting with his little brother and
father, Gylar went back inside the house.
He closed the door on the storm outside, went to his
father's room, and pulled down the pack he'd kept on the
wall, the pack Gylar had seen his father use countless times
when they'd gone hunting together. A brief wash of
memories splashed over Gylar. He sniffled and ran a sleeve
across his nose.
Turning his thoughts to more immediate tasks, Gylar
took the pack into the kitchen. He collected some food
suited to traveling, a good kitchen knife, a spoon, and a
small pot. Gylar looked about for anything else he might
need. A bedroll, he thought. He went to his room, stripped
the woolen blanket off the bed, and rolled it up, tied it onto
his father's already laden pack
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