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The young nomad was out of his element and scared - perhaps even more so
than the time he’d had a one on one encounter with a great
plains lion, when he was but fourteen. He had made it out of that
confrontation alive, and had even earned himself a name because of it.
But the scar that ran along his chest still bore testament to his
human fragility. He focused his attention back on the powerful woman and her words, but they did little to ease him. For one, this demigoddess spoke faster than his kindred and he found himself struggling to keep up with her. Dunchovians spoke in oft times meandering, metaphorical ways that reflected their very way of life. Not unlike a calm May breeze sends whispers through the leaves of the hardy cottonwood that makes its home on the sandy banks of the Marcion, so too was the soft, gentle tongue of his tribe. Although most of the languages south of the Shreken were interwoven and similar, the Aqualarian dialect was difficult in its pace. “Where is my horse?” The words left his mouth before he could reign them in, and he immediately shrank back in fear at his blunt though purely instinctive behavior.The sorceress did not seem displeased with his curtness, however. “Your horse will be fine,” she assured him in a softer tone. “And a fine horse it is.” She paused for a moment before continuing. “As the Marcion flows from the snows of the Shreken and into the noble Istria, as the Istria in turn carves its way through the ancient hills of Irysia and into the mighty Ethans, and at last the Ethans flows into the very sea; so too have our meandering fates joined with each other. Be of sound mind and fear not. Your path is righteous. Our two peoples have had a long and enduring relationship built on peace, trust, and mutual respect. But I need your help, my friend. Now is your moment to shine.”
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4/5/2010 3:11:23 PM
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