Dendrick and the Mule

Dendrick swatted at his ear, narrowly missing a fly that had buzzed too close too often for his liking. If he could have, he would have killed it. But that took a skill and a force he was unwilling to risk hitting himself with instead. He lifted a boot, caked with dried mud, idly from the ground to scratch at his calf. Sighing, he leaned against the mule and rested his eyes. The mule grunted slightly, already overburdened with bedrolls and loot.

This was always Dendrick’s least favorite part – waiting for Keina to get back. She always insisted he stay outside – she being better with money, with her wits, and better smelling than he. Once he tried to object to some of her complaints, but the others still held true.

He did always seem to smell. Sometimes even the mule was disgusted by it – or at least he thought so as even now the mule began to wander. Dendrick tripped up for a moment, not expecting the movement.

“When I get my chance, I shall roast you upon a spit,” Dendrick muttered to the mule, his lips curling at the thought. The mule would absolutely taste despicable, but he enjoyed the threat all the same.

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