Theinryd lay in his room at the Matravers farmstead, his left arm outstretched to be inspected by the local apothecary and friend to the family, Stanley Bloxwitch. “Nasty business” he said, poking the afflicted arm with a wooden probe, causing great discomfort to Theinryd who flinched in protest. “Very nasty business.” Bloxwitch stood from his stool and moved towards a wooden box upon the bedside table. From it, he opened a small draw and produced a round container.
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Theinryd
