Role

Chapter 4

"Fight! All of us!" Uthiln paced the room, breathing through his nose. The
scabs and scars on his body reddened. He shook his head.

"The children then? The elderly? They should take up bows and swords?" Hishar
eyed Uthiln. "They are not all made of hardwood like you, boy." The elderly
elf came closer to Uthiln, and put one gnarled hand on his shoulder.

Uthiln hung his head, for of course Hishar was right. He had seen the mass of
goblins himself. The village stood no chance in such a fight.

"The village will be safe, Uthiln. We are wood elves, we move like cottonweed.
But I have seen your future, Uthiln." The half-elf looked up suddenly at that.
Old Hishar had been known to have visions, it was rumored.

The elderly shaman sighed and smiled faintly. "Your future is not here, boy.
You wish to bring the fight to the wicked? It is out there. Lurking." He
reached into his robe and took his fist out, closed gently around something.
"But she who leads the fight against them is out there too."

He opened his fist, and three extremely sharp thorns were nestled in his palm.
He handled them carefully, lest he draw blood.

"Jaguar teeth, they are called," Hishar said quietly. "Grown on a plant in a
land far away, and one I have not seen in some time. I wore them once." He
pointed to his eyebrow, and Ulthin could indeed make out six old puckered
marks above and below it.

"There is no assurance she will accept you," Hishar continued. "But this
village is too small for you. You have encountered tragedy and horror, and
still wish to fight. That is a strong thing in some, but it can burn those
around it. Seek Baerinika's guidance out."

Hishar looked again into Uthiln's eyes. They stared back unflichingly. Hishar
nodded, and clasped Uthiln's scabbed and scarred jaw in one suddenly strong
hand, while the other held one of the thorns. "Hold still. This will hurt."