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On the point of rising he froze, paralysed not by any hint of danger but by a sudden, unexpected and uncalledfor sense of selfpreservation. Ariston looked put out at his mistake. But why did the impact jar his arm? He would check their condition and question the groom before handing over another coin and returning to his accommodation. Why, instead of welcoming flesh, Kermit maynard double feature: his fighting blood/wilderness mail the point meet something rigid and unforgiving? It provided the twin attributes of perfect anonymity and, despite being light and airy, giving as much protection from the cold as a much heavier garment. Who he sleeps with. The night was cold. Ariston boasted of being from a long line of fearless warriors whom no bandit would dare attack, but it seemed his fearlessness didn’t extend to the dark. The assassin was a man who took no chances. Or any god, in fact. The word childbirth entered his mind– he’d look a fool if he burst in with a sword as the baby emerged – but he quickly dismissed it. Who knows what djinns and sprites haunt the darkness? He took a deep breath. With a last regretful glance at the dead assassin he set off again in the direction of the stables. Showing neither disappointment nor frustration the target would hand the trader a coin and rearrange the rendezvous before making his way to the stables where the two horses he’d bought were being cared for.
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