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. I simply suggested the direction!"
Gisella scowled. "I'm not sure what we're bickering about," she
said. "So Tasslehoff's map is missing a few cities, some mountains --
no ill has come of it. The road is clear, we're making good time.
Let's keep on!"
At that, the miffed expression on Tas's face was replaced by
satisfaction, and Woodrow drifted off into silence again.
Their morning had, in fact, been peaceful, uneventful. They had
woken to find the gray, rainy sky replaced by a cloudless, azure one.
Tas had risen early, drawn to the sounds of rushing water. Removing
his grease-stained leggings, he scrubbed them on a rock in a cold,
clear stream, and they dried quickly on a branch in the early morning
sun.
A light sleeper, Woodrow had meanwhile quietly slipped the bag
of grain from under the buckboard and fed the horses in anticipation
of the long day ahead. Af ter filling their bucket with fresh water,
he ventured into the woods and found a late crop of wild blackberries.
Before long, Gisella had slipped from her bed of overstuffed
pillows in the wagon, wearing her raspberrycolored boots and a vivid
orange, long-sleeved tunic with matching pants so tight they looked
like they had been painted on. The sun gave her hair red hotspots of
light as the three sat by the ashes of the fire and breakfasted on
cold, leftover bean stuffing, fresh blackberries, and mountain spring
water.
Spirits had been high as they rolled away from camp. Within an
hour, they had left the mountains, and the barbarian village of
Que-shu shimmered against the blue-gray horizon
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