Role

Chapter 1

The rage burned away any coherent thought. Unalethekai bowled into Ikda,
knocking away the hammer and smashing a gauntleted fist into the fire giant's
face. He felt cartilage snap and teeth scatter, and brought Defiance around
in a mighty swing. For Faith. For Hope. For deliverance he struck, and Ikda
was thrown from the room, writhing in agony even as he sprinted for the
Healer. Illian, quicker than the lumbering Unalethekai, caught Ikda first,
but the Orc was on her before she could so much as raise her knife. Una
followed a moment behind, and raised a thunderous call of the martyr,
throwing himself in front of the battered and bloody Squire. A veteran of
preying on weakness, Alzinghul quickly returned his attention to the thief
and struck a mortal blow, as Una took the head from Ikda's shoulders, the
cobblestones soaked with the flood of intermingling blood. Pure and tainted.
Good and evil. All red.

Inwardly, Una cursed as he felt himself shrinking as the magic that had
enlarged him dissipated into the copper-scented air. It was all the Orc
needed to do as he always did, and the brute snapped Unalethekai's spine over
his knee.

Torture. The only way to describe being forced to watch Alzinghul and Ikda
desecrate Illian's corpse while they stripped it bare. He seethed inside, his
rage the only feeling in his paralyzed body, so intense that even his sorrow
was washed away like a shell in a tidal wave. Thrice more the bastard of an
Orc broke his already broken spine, each fresh break sending a wave of agony
through him and robbing him of his ability to move. Between the second and
third breaks, the air around them grew cold and a fetid scent filled his
nostrils. Satebos had arrived.

He almost gave up hope. Then, he heard a voice.

"May Neltouda's grace fill your sails, Captain."

To this day, he can't remember the name of the youngling who spoke the words,
but it was all he needed. Steeling himself for what was to come, he knew that
if he lived it would be by the grace of the Tempest . He wouldn't allow the
lich to have him. He had to get away.

Nearly dead, his prayers of sanctuary fallen, Una watched as the Orc guzzled
the healing potions that the bastard had stolen from Illian's corpse. Potions
that Una had given her to keep her safe and alive when he couldn't be there.

And finally, the blinding pain abated and Una managed to get the potion of
transportation to his lips before the Orc was upon him again.

He grunted as the magic dumped him unceremoniously at the base of an ancient
tree in the Dranetty, bleeding and broken, but thankfully, miraculously
alive, Storm be praised.