“Hey,” interrupted Paign, who was trailing at the back of the small procession, “what’s gotten into Tiny?”
Frieda, who was in the lead and had been mostly looking over her shoulder at Anders during their debate, turned her attention to her dog, just a few feet in front of her now.
“What are you doing, Tiny?” she asked of her faithful companion, observing his stance. At first, she thought he appeared ready to play, as though a ball was about to be thrown for him to fetch. But the look on Tiny’s face didn’t look at all like when they played. He looked more like when strangers came to their gate. Tiny didn’t welcome strangers well.
“What’s this about, then?” Anders asked, as he stopped next to Freida, setting his pack on the ground. “He doesn’t look happy.”
“This is strange, don’t you think?” Paign said, as he stooped to put his backpack on the ground next to Anders. “What’s gotten into him?”
The light from their three lanterns flickered across the nearer walls of the main hall, but barely reached to the back of the chamber.
“I don’t know,” replied Freida, concerned. “He’ll growl and bark at strangers. But he knows us, obviously, so that doesn’t make sense.”
“What’s wrong, boy?” Freida asked, bending down to stroke his muzzle.
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