A light-skinned sprite landed on the branch just above him, all spindly limbs and unkempt hair. It was no wonder someone wanted the miner dead. Almost as mad as this dwarf was making him. He had no choice, really-it was that or go mad. An unusual weapon for a faerie, but he had long ago embraced the pain of iron. With an exaggerated huff, Tin pried his iron axe from where it was imbedded in the tree near his head. The dwarf was as good as dead either way, if only because Tin was stuck perched in the damn tree for so long, but he was a professional. She still owed Tin half his money, payable only when the dwarf’s head was delivered. Lord save the ugly bastard if he was off killing the brownie who’d hired him. Day had turned to night with no sign of his target. Tin picked absently at the dried blood on his iron-tipped gloves.
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