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*Father Quadrial steels himself and steps forward.
"Your words are hardly comforting, dark one."
Reaching into his pouch, the portly friar takes a small packet of fine powder.
Pouring the powder into his hand he then blows it across the table.
It settles over the food and the wine.
"A little dust from the tomb of Saint Swithen mixed with an antivenom and some white pepper. Goes very well in stews and glazes for ham."
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