Role

Chapter 8

Mizfara had been dragged along on another of her father's caravans, and
this time the destination was Galadon. Acompanying them was a motley
assortment of merchandise: a dwarf who had struck a guard while drunk, a
family of humans with debts they couldn't pay, and the lone elf. To this
day she can't remember what the elf's crime was supposed to have been.
In Udgaard, being an elf was usually enough.

Malnourished, abused, and not especially attractive, the man's prospects
were not good. She assumed that was why he stopped marching once they
reached the foothills. Her father's captives did this from time to time,
when they realized all hope was lost, thinking it preferable to be slain
than to arrive at market. It was a vain hope. Circling the straggler,
her father's men intended to motivate him into continuing the march
or beat him to the point where he could be carried.

If only they had seen things as Mizfara had, perhaps events would have
unfolded differently. If only they'd looked in his eyes. Her father was
blind to such things, though, having seen only fear, anger and despair in
the eyes of his chattel for so long. Beyond a cursory inspection to
verify that the captives could see, he noticed very little. But not
Mizfara. She saw in this one no anger, no despair, nor, strangely, any
trace of fear. Only an odd sort of determination. Had she been older she
might have remarked on it, but looking back she's glad she didn't.

The men set to their task. One punched the elf in the gut, which brought
him to his knees. Another clubbed him in the back with the flat of a
sword, causing him to pitch forward onto all fours. The first man then
kicked him in the chest. Hard. Mizfara saw blood dripping from his mouth
as he began to mumble. His tormentors found this quite amusing, thinking
him mad, and paused in their abuse to trade jests at his expense. How
ignorant they were.

The mumbling stopped, and with it the laughter. The man slowly rose from
from the kneeling position he'd been forced to assume. Lifting his head
at last, he regarded them with eyes of pure flame, even as a soft, white
glow winked into being about his body. Those who had been watching the
spectacle now scrambled for their weapons, but it was too late. The
beaten one, his wounds now vanished, began to chant in earnest, raising
his hands to call down the wrath of his deity on those present. Their
cries of anguish filled her ears when Mizfara lost consciousness.