Role

Chapter 2

Jorrill looked down at the babe in the bascinet before him. He had never sired
children himself, had never had the fathering urge. His life had been focused
upon duty, battle. But the baby girl was his sister's child, and his sister
had died birthing the girl. The father had only days ago fallen under
Jorrill's command, fighting back the undead. And so now, "duty" took on a
different meaning. The baby was his to raise, may the gods help her.

He reached down and stroked the baby's smooth, pale cheek with one caloused
finger. Alysone, they had named the child. She had her father's bright, green
eyes and the small tufts of downy fluff on her head suggested she would have
her mother's raven hair. Alysone had been the name of his grandmother, a good
Barovian name. Jorrill hoped she would also have her great-grandmother's
fighting spirit. She would need it.

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Alysone, age seven, moved through the forms her uncle had taught her. In her
small hands, a wooden sword that looked too large and heavy for such a small
child. And indeed, her arms trembled as she tried to move smoothly through
each transition. The forward lunge into the upward sweep, stepping back while
the sword swung forward and to the side, and always the footwork moving in a
triangle, legs never crossing. Finally, her small body could lift the sword no
longer and she rested it on the floor.

She strained her ears to determine if Uncle Jorrill was nearby. She heard
nothing, and a joyful smile lit up her face, her green eyes beaming. In a
bright, beautiful voice she began to sing. It was a simple folk song often
sung during the harvest, but Alysone's voice made it sound like something
more. She had always had a talent for music. "Alysone!" came her uncle's voice
from around the corner. Alysone's voice cut off instantly. But it was too
late, of course. She continued her sword training, a bruise already darkening
her cheek where her uncle had struck her.