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He put on a thick cloak and pulled the pack to the door.
The snowfall had sheathed the ground in white. Mount Phineous
was hidden in the distance, but its presence still
loomed in Gylar's mind. What better place to contact the
gods than from the top of their latest creation?
He adjusted his cloak more snugly, threw the heavy
pack over his shoulder. It unsteadied him for a moment, but
he regained his balance and thrust an arm through the
remaining strap, securing the burden. He turned and looked
one last time at what once had been his home. Gylar said
nothing, bowed his head, and began walking toward the
great mountain.
*****
Marakion watched as the young boy, bundled to the
teeth, left Lader's Knoll.
"Off on a journey, are we?" he said quietly from the
shadow of a wall. "And just where are you going, little
looter?"
Marakion had been in the small village for about half an
hour, and he hadn't seen a living being. His disappointment
was acute. He'd assumed that Lader's Knoll was the
marauders' camp. It was perfect, a desolate place; all those
within traveling distance were scared to visit.
But instead of seedy shacks full of murderers and
cutthroats, he'd found fresh graves or, sometimes, a few
bodies, sleeping the slumber of the dead. The gaunt faces
were a faint purple, and dried blood covered their lips.
Another false trail. His frustration was painful almost
beyond bearing. He wandered the town in search of some
sign, any sign that this had been the hideout of the
marauders, but it appeared that the only curse to take up
residence in this town was a plague
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