An elder rock-mover stepped from behind the group that had gathered around Rog. He walked with his chest out wearing shiny armor and using a cane. All the rock-movers went quiet. Might I see one of those rocks?

Rog reached into Rog’s bag and pulled out a deep-purple colored one. Rog didn’t want to give it up, the rock-mover might want to keep it for himself, and Rog really really liked it. Rog stopped for a moment, almost not dropping the rock into his hand.  Finally, Rog reasoned that Rog has a lot of pretty rocks in Rog’s bag. Maybe Rog could part with this one.

The rock-mover caught the rock. It touched his hand for a second before it dropped out of his hand and to the ground. One of the younger rock-movers rushed forward to pick it up for him, but he couldn’t lift it.

“By the Wätcher’s beard…” the elder rock-mover said.

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