“Yes, yes. I do agree on that account.” He said slowly in his accent. Looking down at the paper Tetrus began to think deeper. Perhaps she was right about the climates. The Norwegian and Welsh wouldn’t do well in the Harsh Libyan climate.
His quill started flying over the paper at an alarming rate. Different words and signatures going in their places. “Ok sistah, we’ll do it as you wish. Just know that you will nevah’ see the Welsh and Norwegian ever again as they are sent to Romania. Surely you haven’t grown too attatched, that would be foolish.” His wheezy voice seemed questioning, judging.
“And the otha’ two well be sent to Tripoli. Have them ready for transport by 4PM. Yes?” Hopefully, this was all clear.
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