Role

Chapter 3

Uthiln's return to his village had taken a week, and it was a hazy, delirious
memory at best. He had collapsed at the edge of the village, found covered in
festering wounds from head to toe. Bundled with care by his fellow folk, to
Hishar's small wooden abode nestled near the edges of town. The old shaman
gently treated his wounds, and glared at the elders as they came for news on
the seven others.

But Uthiln stopped his master, and grimly told the breathless elders of the
horrors they had endured. He spoke of the others' bravery, and perhaps he
embellished a bit (or a lot, in Dashil's case), but the fallen, he felt,
deserved good tales. They had all fought. He had just happened to live.

Great pyres were built in the dead's honor, as was the village's custom. There
was brief talk of attempting to recover the bodies, but these were darkly
dismissed as one elder commented on a typical goblin's diet. Such
conversations were hushed quickly when Uthiln, with the help of crutches, had
limped up and stared at the pyres. One muscle in his scarred jaw worked as he
stared into the fire. He was the last one to leave, near morning, as the piles
of ashes turned grey.


It was a month hence after Uthiln's return that Hishar walked into the home
and was confronted.

"Is this all we can do, holy one?" Uthiln spat, and Hishar was surprised by
the venom in Uthiln's voice. "Burn corpseless fires? Mutter about evil yet sit
on our hands?" Uthiln was stronger by then, nearly fully healed, and his voice
carried a deep weight to it.

But Hishar just sighed. He had known Uthiln, and had known this day would
come. "Half of our warriors, taken in an instant by goblins, child. We were
lucky you returned. You were lucky. What would you have us do?"