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. Horns as much as a foot
long grew from their temples or browbones.
Though they usually wore clothing, particularly out-
side their island nation, they were scantily covered by
human standards. Their outfit of choice was a harness
studded with weapons and decorations, and a short
leather skirt.
Before long, the small, gleaming, beautifully crafted
longboat, propelled by sixteen powerful oarsmen, glided
gracefully up to the barge, barely leaving a wake. Every-
one aboard the minotaur boat looked worse than
unfriendly -- angry, almost. They stared unabashedly
without speaking, their collective gaze primarily on Tas-
slehoff.
The kender was beginning to feel like one of the bugs
in Lig's and Bozdil's display cases, and it made him
squirmy. "Hello," he called, flashing his friendliest smile.
"Tasslehoff Burrfoot. And you are --"
"Goar. We've had much trouble of late with the kender
on the Blood Sea Coast." The speaker and apparent
leader, if his lone red harness was any indication, was a
head taller than the other oarsmen. "They are an infan-
tile and thievish race. You are not, perhaps, like the
rest?" His words sounded awkward but were phoneti-
cally correct, as if he had learned the common tongue
from a textbook.
Tasslehoff was too busy staring to hear the insult at
first. Woodrow watched the kender's cheeks grow hot as
the words sank in. He cut in before the kender could
launch into one of his spine-tingling taunts.
"My friend and I are stranded out here, having mistak-
enly boarded this barge without knowing that it would
be cut adrift
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