The man gargled the water in his mouth and spat.
“My name is Lor.”
The truth was, that was about all Lor could remember. But even if he could remember more, Lor realized he had better be careful what he said and to whom he said it. Whoever had been the one responsible for trapping him and his companions in those flowers would not look highly on them being out. Escaping was the easy part. Staying free was the part that distinguished man from boy, and, presently, the boy had a silver dagger sheathed on his waist that belonged to Lor. (p. 45, After Antarctica)
All illustrations © 2014-15 Alexander Nixon
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