“What are ye eating?” Ringo Flinthammer said, peering at Widge Gearloose, whose lips were filmed with a green slime and whose cheeks bulged as he chewed.
“Gumdrops,” Widge mumbled, wiping his lip. “It wouldn’t be Hallow’s End without them!”
“Are ye sure ye dinnae want to stay?” Mordun Flinthammer asked, tugging sadly on his beard. “McSorf is paying good money for dig site guards.”
“Nay,” Ringo said, digging his heel into Frostmaw’s side, pointing the bear he was riding toward the stream that marked one border of Valgarde. “We were in that damned ship it seemed like forever. We need to get out, into the fresh air, and go kick Durkon and Bragh in the arse.”
“B’sides,” Belsun rumbled, “Them ruins is empty. Zedd, Glorenfeld and all them don’t need us breathin’ down their necks while they look at rusty old axes and dragon carvings.”
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