“Here’s Bondeau,” Iskander Sonwil smirked. “Come from the swamps with another yarn spun out of half-turths and old-wives’ tales.” The man he addressed put down his musket and turned to face him.
“Sonwil. I should have known you were here by the nasty smell when I entered,” Jean-Jacques Bondeau replied. “Still, I’m glad you’re here. At last I have the proof.” He pulled a roll from his pack, and spread it out in front of the astonished tavern.
“That can’t be!” Sonwil said, shock draining his colour.
“The pelt of the draffée,” Bondeau replied, exuding confidence. “Proof positive it exists.”
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