Quincy tromped up the ramp of his uncle’s barge and stowed his duffle below decks. He was about to spend another summer working on his uncles’ boat, ferrying passengers and goods up the Dragontail River and through the Singing Plains.
They’d ply the waters of the floating canals, trading rice for salt in the Dwarven Mountains, passing through the ancient Elven Forest of Lamps. They’d stop in Piketown and Warlocksburg, and probably take a detour to Port Crystal if they made good time.
Just like last year and the year before. Quincy sighed. He was going to be so bored.

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