Role

Chapter 6

Jirash stands at a table upon which rests a mortar, pestle, and various
other devices used in the distillation and synthesis of poisons. The old
felar seems to be wholly consumed with the tasks before him, but Athald
knows better. He stands quietly, hands clasped behind his back, waiting
for the guildmaster to speak.

"What's your plan, boy?" he says at last, eyeing him critically from
across the table.

"Plan, sir?"

"Did I stutter? What do you plan to do with your life?"

Silence. Athald is usually good with words, but, for once, he has no
idea what to say.

Jirash continues, "Are you going to keep moping around here, doing odd
jobs for me to make up for whatever it is you think you've done, or were
about to do, had I not intervened?"

Athald pauses to consider the question, and the more he considers, the
more indignant he gets. He opens his mouth to say something, thinks
better of it, then closes it again without saying anything. Surely
Jirash, of all people, knows the depths of his wickedness?

"Oh ho! That one hit home, did it?"

A smile creeps across the old felar's face, revealing his many sharp
teeth, but it is not unfriendly.

"Boy, you've got a good heart. That much is plain to me, even if you
can't see it just yet. My eyes pierce the shadows, but by the light's
grace they pierce more than that. I know you ain't no murderer.
I knew it even as you stood there in that alley, frozen in place and
about to get a knife in the back because of it. So I ask again: what's
your plan?"

Athald's can only answer honestly: "I don't know, sir."

Jirash considers this, staring at the concoction he'd been stirring for
what seems like an interminable amount of time before finally speaking.

"Well, I reckon I was no different when I was in your place. You're gonna
want to head northwest from here, up into the mountains..."