Saruman looked the fife over. Nothing seemed different about it, though at the top was a signature in gold. He pressed it to his lips and blew. No sound came from it. The Sorcerer had his mouth shaped in exact form.
"Strange." He muttered.
Meanwhile, Aranel wasn't doing well. Tears of pain streamed down her face. She was so stressed, she was sweating blood. Aranel heared a faint marching. The elf struggled then passed out.
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"So why the safe distance, this curious look? Why tear out single pages when you can throw away the book? Why pluck one string when you can strum the guitar?
MeWithoutYou http://fortyfifthparadox.com
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