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by Elizabeth Haydon

Prologue Page 2

Location and Hours

Our Firm

​    The exhausted Firbolg soldiers paused, awaiting approval.

     Their leader finally looked back at the massive mound of displaced earth, then down into the hole in the rocky ground and nodded reluctantly.
      The unit scrambled. While the Sergeant-Major looked away again, they hurried into the trees of the glade and dragged forth the large body, carefully wrapped in strips of cloth that had been soaked in brine and pungent herbs to help combat the odiferous state to which it had devolved.
     Then, with newfound energy, they hoisted it high enough to carry as a group to the grave and, using the ropes that had been attached to haul it, lowered it carefully into the hole, slipping only once before righting it again.
      After a few moments, the most senior of the Bolg soldiers cleared his throat politely.​

The Year 1008, Sixth Age
The city-state of Hacket

In the inconstant torchlight flickering around the dark glade, it seemed that the grave would never be deep enough.
   The soldiers, exhausted after the hauling of the thick-set body from where it had been found in the hut, the stench of rot and decay, and the shifts of digging, were sweating profusely in the warm night air. They glanced every now and then over their shoulders, keeping their reconnaissance brief, then turned back to the task at hand. 
    Their leader alone stood watch, lending no aid.
   “Make quick work of it, boys,” he muttered, refusing to watch their undertaking.
     Finally, after far longer than any of them wanted, the task was considered complete enough.

Prologue Page 1

The Weaver's Lament