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Mud stains the hem of her robe. She gnaws on an apple as she walks, spitting the pips into the trees.
You greet her and ask of her travels have been kind. Clearing her throat, she sings:
- I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Fade,
- For there is no darkness, nor death either, in the Maker's Light,
Oh. She's a chanter.
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