Role

Chapter 7

He splashed the dagger-cold water into his face a second time, wiping his
scarred features clean - or some semblance of 'clean' - with one calloused
hand. He leaned against the stone sink, looking down. The blood pink of the
water swirled slowly, hypnotically. A few graying hairs tangled themselves
amongst the whirlpool.

A balding half-elf priest! Uthiln smirked into his reflection in the mirror.
He could have sworn the last time he fell - and he fell a lot - the orc had
caught his paunch with his wicked axe. Uthiln had sucked in his stomach when
it came cruelly slashing toward him - and there was more of him than he could
suck.

I'm old, he thought. And it's showing. He rubbed the widening bald spot on his
head, looking into the mirror. He frowned, then frowned even further, his
scarred, stony face obliging. Were those jowls?

He *did* feel old sometimes, but only sometimes. When he prayed to Baerinika
during a fierce brawl, his heart spilled with a deep joy. Doing the right
thing, even at cost. But Gods, was it painful after.

Some called him brash, it was true. Some, he suspected, even thought he was
suicidal. But when he rushed to defend the orb, or to stay the hand of an evil
magus throwing their foul spells at the innocent, he did not think of death.
He thought of youth. That triumph of doing the right thing, even at great odds
and mayhap rashly, was the opposite of seeking death. He was seeking life.

He grinned then, into his reflection. Aye, he would die a final death. In
combat, he was sure - and likely against the orcs or that ghastly lich. But he
would die feeling young. And that was a thing itself to fight for. Wasn't it?

He stretched out one aching arm and a sword glimmered out of Light into his
hand. Back to work.