Soaked and stinking of Isen-marsh, Gryffudd climbed the high hill west of Tros Hynt. He paid his feet no heed except when he stumbled, which was often. Looking up, he watched the clouds as they grazed their gentle fingers across the moon. The crescent was a sliver in the sky—a wink. Swaying, the man pushed an upright pointer finger against his lips, shushed, and winked back.
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Cymry
