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Jericho listened silently as the man told his story.  She could tell from the way he spoke, and the way his emotions quavered, that this was not any story; it was his.  She did hear the small grunt of pain uttered but she waited for him to finish before interrupting.

“Nithel, my friend,” she murmured softly, quiet enough only he could hear, “are you hurt?  I can help, if I may.”

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