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This thought put him in mind of a song he once heard a wandering shaper sing of Beornmod the Exile: Alas! The lone one longs for the land of his kin, In his breast he buries the burden of his loss As he fares among the foreign, far are his dear ones. Though he sails over seas, his sorrow follows, Cold is such company, his cares never fade . .
“Here’s something I knocked off a few days ago. The fine fellow who ordered it had the cheek to offer half of what we agreed, so I told him to get out before I stuffed it up his arse and cut him a bigger hole.”