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April 15, 2009

Caitlin: Gifts to Impress

He hates tribute day. Every year, it’s the same: the lines, the heat, the bragging, the live animal stench. Why live animals when the dead ones were easier to handle? Provided they were fresh, of course.

He sits on the throne, the mantle and crown too heavy, sweat dripping down his back. He monotonously repeats the stock phrase of royal thanks without really paying attention. Until she approaches.

She is unremarkable; plain features, plain clothing. But her tribute stamps its hooves and belches a snort of fire that singes the hem of his robe. Finally, an end to his boredom.

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