Trenton stroked his fine embroidered vest and sauntered towards the bar, giving one of the hobbit dancers a lascivious smile. But he already had what he came for: he fanned himself playfully with the sought after Shire phone number. He leaned over over the short shield-maiden in the horn-rimmed glasses; uncharacteristic for a shield-maiden, she was hurriedly scribbling notes. (Most of that type couldn't read.)
"Well, now. Having fun are we?"
"I have seventeen scrolls of notes -- already." The shieldmaiden shoved her glasses back up her nose, looking harried.
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Deserves death! I daresay he does... And some die that deserve life. Can you give it to them?
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