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(A band of several figures, indistinct and apparently dressed in white, move through the grass at a distance. They bear two burdened carts)

NAVICHET: Eh. They’re going towards the keep. Maybe they’re trading.

SPONDULE: (Aghast) Trading? What on-- What on earth could they want?

NAVICHET: (Impassive) They need stuff. Same as us. (Turning to Spondule) Weapons, maybe. You want to unload all those arms you gleaned?

Comic Version