Role

Chapter 2

His palms were sweaty. His heart was racing. A small sheen of sweat appeared on
his upper lip. He went through the forms in his mind, calming himself. Thrust,
pivot, hamstring, throat. Stab, dodge, pivot, strike. Repeating them did seem
to help. Some.

His nervousness was silly. He is a member of the Holy Brigade of the Phoenix.
A true Maran. The Captain of the Fortress of Light and, therefore, a member
Of the Council of Light. He had faced dragons, dark knights of immense power,
even the vaunted Empress Ahtieli, an undead lich sorcerous of considerable
mystical might. And not once did he back down, nor show fear.

He had romanced many an elf maid, drank ale for ale with a dwarf on more than
on occasion, and yet here he was, frozen with fear, unable to open the door.

Iltanthal tried to muster his courage. He had braved the depths of Hell with
a (faked) laconic smile of one being waited on by a bevy of buxom beauties.
And yet the formidable pair on the other side of this door were his biggest
challenge yet. He kept trying to steel his resolve, but each time he made
to reach for the door, his hand wouldn't seem to move.

Suddenly, the door started to swing inward of its own volition. Not yet!
It is too soon! I am not ready! He tried to turn to leave, to hide, to
do...something. But he remained frozen, a grim frown on his face, waiting
for the phrase he dreaded...

"Come in. Come in, our son. We are very proud of you."

The voice of his father shot a bolt of lightning down his spine, forcing
him into motion. Lumbering like one of the Lich Satebos' undead, he
entered the room, feeling numb. The door closed behind him.

A hug from his mother, and the tears began to flow. Everything poured out.
His life to this point, recounted for them. They deserved that much.
That much and so much more.