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    “We can’t all be as pleasant as hobbits,” Dis said. The hobbit in question tossed her head back, black curls bouncing and glinting in the late afternoon light, and laughed.

    “You’ve met few hobbits then,” she replied, still smiling. “I’ve often thought we’re the most contentious race in all the lands.”

    “You’ve met few dwarves then." Dis was rewarded with more laughter, and then all of a sudden, the hobbit was plopping herself down on the bench beside Dis, fishing out her own pipe.

    Dis meets an unexpected companion as she waits in Rivendell.

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    01 Jun 2025

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  2. Public Bookmark 28

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    Hel’s crown, her hollow ring of rusted metal from the breast armor of a long dead hero whose name no one alive remembered except herself and you could hardly say she counted. Her crown did not glint. Her crown did not shine. It dug a bloody wound into her flesh. It scraped a regal groove into her bone. Persephone wore no crown. In the spring, she wove flowers in her hair, and in the winter they clung to her still and rotted. Soon the blossoms shook apart when you touched them, and Hel tangled the stinking petals into Persephone’s long red hair until the flower queen could not move without shedding crinkled death behind her.

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    01 Jun 2025

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