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“You’re not afraid of Rygun?” I look past his hulking form to the beast at his back, perched on his haunches, inky eyes narrowed on me as he blows whiffs of steam from flared nostrils—ignoring the spike of fear that tries to nuzzle into my callus-encrusted heart. I’ve often thought folk look like their pets. This is no exception.
I’m going to shatter his bones and use them for toothpicks.
When has following somebody into a dark tunnel to the words of “it’s just down here” ever been a good idea?
It’s hard to find the perfect mug. When you do, they always break.