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Crossworld book one (first draft), page 2

        Denaril laughed, not expecting a word like that from Jolin's lips. "Spooks, is it? Well no, these aren't just any spooks... But tell me, what have these weeks brought you?" he queried with a smile, and placed a hand on his old friend's shoulder, leading him from the dock to get away from the ruckus for a while. "I'm sure there's been more than a few pelt stories to the young'ns, now. Come, let's have a sit and a drink," the Emoril suggested, as they continued down the walk to a mug house.

        "Well then, if you insist," Jol responded emphatically, "Never could turn down a cold cup of kloren. Don't go thinkin' you'll escape from tellin' your own stories, mind," he scolded. "You've had a way with that for time on time, and you'll not slip past me with it! You should know that by now, ye old coot," he remarked, finishing off his small, friendly lecture with a pat on the back--the kind he always gave to a friend like Denaril. Not hard enough to do any damage, but just enough to trip up a person's feet a little.

        The Emoril sped his pace for a few steps, to keep from stumbling over his own feet with the weight of Jolin's strength behind his shoulders. "Oh, so you'll talk about my tricks, will you," he said with a grin. "Never mind that we're only what, five circles apart? Old man, indeed."

        "Seven from here, old man," Jol interjected, baring the most toothy smile he could muster. "You've been gallivantin' in that craft o' yours too long."

        "Jealous still, are ye?" quipped Denaril to his chum. "And you with your cold kloren, calling me a coot. Always the cold drinks..."


        As the two old men were heading off for the mug house, the newcomers were busy paying exhausting attention to the sizable sum of paperwork and procedures that were mostly standard for all such new arrivals. Their Receivers were excitedly taking down all the information, and helping explain to them all the details of their arrival and acceptance on Golacin.

        "-And if you notice on page twelve, there's an explanation of the details of your local venturing possibilities. It goes over the most recommendable places to dine and visit, and some of the things you'll need to know about the local towns and people, and landmarks. Now what we're going to do next, is..."

        The first of the newcomers was tipping around as if he were beginning to feel faint from the long conversation. His eyes had rolled so many times by now, he'd considered that if he rolled them once more too soon, they might just loose themselves from his face and begin their own adventures across the nations of Golacin. He turned to his comrade with a nudge, and began whispering to him in Falinam, "How long do you think this can go on? Do Golacins need to breathe?"

        Garuil looked up to his company, being at eye level with his chin, and responded with a quiet chuckle, trying not to create too much of a distraction as to risk the Receiver starting over. "You didn't happen to notice any gills on them, did you? Perhaps they can breathe in and out in one movement," he jested, also in their native tongue. "Do you think they have a council to decide on these proceedings, or did these two come up with them on their own?"

        The taller foreigner, Melaruil, just smiled and faced their babbling Receiver again, making eye contact to show that they were still listening and there was no need for concern about their attention--which was only partly true. The third and silent Receiver finally chipped in by opening a book and pulling out a loose page to hand to the babbler, whom had just finished the majority of his speech. "Ah yes, and let us not forget the formal dining this evening..."

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