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Yeah, friendlies. Marching down the road, in good order, at speed, fanning out, getting ready. Time for final prayers. The formations shudder into order. The subofficers point to the proper position.
No hordes of light cavalry thunder at us. The sun above is dim, when it peeks through the thick clouds at all. The air carries a trace of citrus, faint grass on the wind.
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The Pathfinders report that . . .