A soft bed of straw. One of the stalks softly tickled under Clive's nose. The Breelander waves his hand in the general direction of the annoying feeling below his nostrils. It was almost getting light already and the previous night in the Prancing Pony was the end of the man's last funds. Clive felt the pouch around his belt, feeling the cold copper against his fingers. The man thought for a moment, moving his shoulders a bit to lay more comfortable.
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Bill Ferny
