Godkiller Thresher received a communication confirming the arrangements.
“Hmm,” he hummed to himself, fingers tapping on the camp chair in his tent. “A drunkard and a dryad walk into a bar... No. Wade barely drinks. Damn.”
He reached across his tent, the smaller one he actually slept in, not the big affair everyone saw Godkiller entering and exiting.
Modest and efficient suited him well. Though he did allow the luxury of a tall tent that he could sit in without bumping his head. His cot was also nicer than average, which meant he merely disliked it rather than being disabled by it.
On that cot was a small lap desk with hidden drawers full of pens, papers, and protractors. It was an antique he’d had restored for when he was in the field. He clipped a piece of paper to its top and started jotting down notes.
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Partway down a list of words that rhymed with ‘dryad,’ he crumpled the paper and tossed it over his shoulder. Even as he pulled out a blank sheet, the old one deconstructed itself into its constituent atoms before hitting the floor.
It was a rough start, but he didn’t mind. He had plenty of paper and a few months to work out some good lines before they arrived, and he made his final decision about Ms. Methusela.
The End
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