The gang sits by a river side as dawn slowly breaks far away at the horizon. Grey and lavender streak across the sky.
“So the gems I found were nothing more than dirt and stones,” Cang says.
“Just as Davit,” Shyan says.
“And the many fine silks I spread out upon,” says Fassn wistfully.
“Indeed,” Cang says. “But Old Mossy himself had a handful of the real thing. Shining rubies, glittering emeralds, sparkling sapphires.” He lets his sentence trail off so he and his companions can imagine the small pile of brilliant jewels.
“Well,” he continues after a moment. “We know where he lives. I say we go take them.”
Logan Bright — Works 