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©Edy® March 1997


   "Hear Ye! Hear Ye!". Timeus burst into the room suddenly, having listened from behind the door while the discussion was in full swing. "Now that I", he paused as he drew the table's attention briefly to the WeaveMaster dangling from the hip, "and my patrol are back from the war of the Undead Mokex, we have already begun assembling the swordsmen of the territory for a massive purge of the region. We shall WIPE OUT!" He paused a defiant stare at the cleric, "Yes WIPE OUT! the entire region, then rebuild it properly," he bellowed with a triumphant slam of the fist on the table.

   "....according to your wishes?" thought Emile, "...under your control?...and of course... properly...means the ...properly of Timeus..", he wondered. What was this travelling socerer-rogue really up to? Why does he pointedly hate to see other people talk. The old cleric recalled the time he met casually with the young apprentice Vogel and was seen chatting at an inn. The conversation was going well until Timeus turned up suddenly, pretending to place a drink for the young Vogel while briefly whispering a mild charm spell into his ear. Then, as now about to re-occur, all communications ceased.

   Timeus continued confidently outlining the way the existing symptoms of a diseased nation would be eradicated and announced that all would be fine afterward. He ended on a smug note and looked quietly in the direction of the doorway so as not to invite comments from the table.

   Emile was beginning to feel disappointed as the seconds ticked away without so much as a "Hmmmmmmm" from a participant at the table, even if only to hint that there were other people in the same room who actually had opinions. He wanted to pull out his pipe and suck his teeth if only to annoy the spell of dominating silence that lingered in the still air above. Too bad he had left the dispel-charm pipeweed in his room on account of the recent distractions, he thought, grinning. He whipped up a low-toned, barely audible hymnal of clearing perception while pressing onto the platinum cross sewn into the skin of his forearm, sighing lazily at the upcoming bout of territorial disputes, misrepresentations and veiled maneuvres.

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