Role

Chapter 12

Frost collects at the foot of the cot as a hulking, bearded form slouches
over a collection of wicked weaponry. A bloodied rag wafts away a few flakes
of ice from the hilt of a grinning faced mace as she cleans what must be a
tendon stuck in the sharp crevice of the brutal weapon. An open window to her
sect hall lets in morning light on her back, a tactical position in her mind
to never keep her eye off the door. She halts her movement suddenly and the
flutter of wings swings her eyes around to find an owl on the sill. An
assassin perhaps? The well trained bird bites down on twine between the beak
and a wax sealed scroll falls to the ground. She watches as it falls, one end
hitting the ground before the other and it becomes still after a wobble.
Looking back up the bird has left quietly as it came, save a small dash of
white mess. Grumbles escape the lips of the old woman as she wipes her rag on
the sill and then leans down to pick up the scroll. "What the 'ell is this
all 'bout," she mutters to herself and her mind leaves 'weapon cleaning time'
and shifts to unraveling a curious scroll delivered in a curious way.
It reads:
From : Daphedee
To : Golthazar
Subject: Good luck.

Hey,

I won't be around to see who wins the vote, but I hope it's you.
Thanks for everything.

- Daphedee

It was to be the last words from an old friend set to echo in the mind of the
grizzled War Master, riddle by age and scar tissues from years of bloodshed
and carnage. Her throat tightens up and she swallows hard. Golthazar always
appreciated strong women of power for some reason. It empowered her. In
moments before battles, after battles, and sometimes when the world had been
conquered for a few moments - celebration at the Inn of the Eternal Star left
many marks in Golthazar's mind.Her promotion to Vindicator, War Master, War
Master Vindicator(however brief it was), the wedding of a Lich, the mark of
her God to serve balance and remain honest to herself and others, and even
the loss of friend and foe alike when drinking to their memory felt like the
honorable thing to do. For they all had their part in the balance, every last
one.


Looking down at the scroll she slowly folds a crease in half, again, and
tucks it into her belt. She moves her thick hand to her eyes and clears the
jagged ice from the weathered crows feet on her face. The glacial mark on the
hand flares blue for a moment and she moves to stroke her frosty beard for
comfort.

"Ter absent friends, los' loves, old gods, and the season of mists; and may
each an' every one eh us always give the devil 'is due" she whispers. "I'll
meet yeh down there soon 'nough, yeh bloody breedin' wench."

Turning to the cot she eyes her two most favorite maces for crushing gnome
skulls. A wicked grin forms and in her mind a scene forms - a lichen-ridden cave
gnomes fleeing for their lives, and Golthazar cackling madly. The best therapy.