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He had grown tired of the taverns and the drinking and the fighting and the wenching.
It was peaceful there. And he could listen to the loons that had much mellower voices than those two from the LaPineaux Clan.
Karl-Heinz had found his niche. He could haunt all day and all night without scaring a soul. Anyone who heard him was positive that it was the echo of a distant thunder storm or possibly the wind blowing through the notches of the distant mountains.
And he had the entire pond mostly to himself.
Karl-Heinz’ interests had left the wilderness of humanity behind.
He tended instead to the wilderness of the flowers that grew nearby.
One of his favorites was this yellow broadleaf that grew in the marshes.
And every spring he was treated to delicate purple buds that shot up from the loam near the edge of the pond.
Karl-Heinz was a happy man; but that did not keep him from mocking the thunderstorms and winds blowing through the notches of distant purple mountains.