Role

Chapter 7

Unalethekai grunted, sweat dripping down his brow and onto his wool tunic as
he rolled once more onto his back to begin his third set of sit-ups. The Hall
of Fire felt like its name, warm as a furnace, although it was likely only
due to the fact that Unalethekai had been exercising for the last hour.

It had started when Isendor made a comment about his stomach. By no means
fat, Unalethekai HAD developed a bit of a paunch lately, no doubt due to the
fact that he no longer needed to sprint from all corners of Thera to the
Redhorn gate for defense. Succor, it seems, is a mixed blessing.

Panting, he rolled again to his knees and started his third set of push-ups
as he continued to consider his motivations.

There was a woman. As there usually is whenever a man becomes hyper-aware of
his physique. Padwei, Elder Prophet of the Light. She had surprised him, the
other day on the Snow-Covered Ledge. He thought she was going to chastise him
again for his rough manners, but instead she gave him gifts. One, a big
fluffy pair of socks, and two.....a kiss. He cares for her a great deal,
perhaps even loves her, but he's hesitant about pursuing anything.

His first duty is to the Light, and the Fortress. And it seems that in the
coming days, even more will be asked of him. He has no doubt that he can
handle the burden of leadership, but he won't risk compromising it by trying
to spread himself too thin. Captain of his own ship, First Mate of the
Thundering Maiden, Acolyte of the Golden Sun...it's a good thing that
leadership has never been much of a burden to him, as used to it as he is.

Unalethekais, massive, bulging arms shook with fatigue as he stood
once again and moved towards the weapon rack where Defiance waited for him.
He took the blade in his hands, reveling in the balance and the feel of the
hilt in his calloused fists, and aware, as he always was, of the blade's
legacy. It reminded him, as his Lady Tempest did, that the mortal will is
capable of anything, if it is strong enough.

He began moving through the forms, slashing, lunging, thrusting, sweat
pouring off him now. His conversation with Isendor last eve had also helped
to steel his resolve. The Marshall sought to be with his Beloved, and who
could blame him. What could be more precious to the Light than a love that
transcends the boundaries of the mortal coil?

So much rested on Unalethekai's shoulders now, and he couldn't chance being
weak, or soft, or lenient. In the past, many of his enemies had escaped death
at his blade, and he couldn't allow that now. A tainted soul allowed to
escape meant one more threat lurking, waiting for an opportunity to harm
those he loved, Padwei, or his brothers and sisters in the Fortress.

He had learned a good deal from Isendor in the decades since he had enlisted
as a Scribe, and he knew that if he hoped to be Marshall, he would need to
hone his bladework, perfect his strategy. His prayers were powerful, his
healing touch renowned, but if he hoped to stand at the Redhorn gate, repel
any attackers that might come, and pursue them into oblivion, as a Marshall
of the Fortress should, he would need to forge his body into a weapon of the
Light.

*****

Exhausted from the hours of exercise, the sweat-soaked Unalethekai sheathed
Defian