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Avon's Drabbles  by Avon

The road is long and dark and the wind blows cold.  He wraps his ragged cloak around him as he trudges past candle-lit windows and smoke-drifting chimneys.  Now and then, a dog barks uneasily at his presence or a horse whickers restlessly.  In fitful patches of moonlight, he catches glimpses of a sturdily built henhouse or a neat vegetable garden and remembers another scattering of small cottages, far up in the north - a place of his kin where he is welcomed at gate and door.  With grim smile he rests his hand on a broken sword and strides on.

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