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P W ARMS


tiercel
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The wind whistled round the ancient chimney, causing the turf fire to flicker, casting an cheery orange glow around the gloomy interior of the inn. The warming scent of peat smoke mingled with the aroma of fine brown ale, wholesome roast beef and Yorkshire Pudding and Pigeon Pies; a fine thing to cheer the heart of any tired sportsman. The ancient beams and walls were hung with many trappings of the chase; a handful of age-worn fox masks, the trophy of a young Red Stag, and an ancient Hammergun hung above the fireplace. The barman leant against the bar, polishing his tankards and waiting for the old comarades to arrive.

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