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The flagon of wine sat untouched on the table. Boromir noted the flush to Faramir's cheeks, his parted lips, his fingers tapping his knee in time to the music. It all sounded like caterwauling to Boromir, the jangling lute-strings and odd, atonal wailing, so he poured himself a drink and tried not to look bored. It was Faramir's birthday, after all, and he had suggested this tavern.
Then the tempo began to quicken, and the clatter of castanets replaced the singing. When the dancers leapt forward, eyes flashing, silks swirling, Boromir finally understood: his little brother was growing up.
For the "Pitcher" challenge
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