Uthiln the Holy of Faith

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.

Role

Chapter 6

Uthiln slid down the wall of the Hall of Marans with a heavy sigh, looking at
the moonlit courtyard before him. A freezing gust of wind brought a swirling
scattering of fine snow off one of the watchtowers, glittering around him
quietly.

How? How had it happened? He replayed the details of the fight over and over
in his mind - the choking sand of the Sorrows whirling around them, the
Marshall's back pressed to his as they fought both the demon and the orc
chieftain simultaneously. They had been blinded then, as the orc kicked dirt
in a sweeping arc, and Uthiln had raised his shield, gritting his teeth for
the blow that never came.

But the sounds did. The wet, unmistakable sounds of blade biting flesh, and
then cries in a language he did not understand. He had rubbed his eyes
furiously while waving his shield and when his eyes blurrily opened, saw it.

Two lost soldiers, crumpled, unmoving, unmistakably dead. The ones they had
heard calling out for help as they had furiously chased after the orc. And
they, the supposed defenders of Light, had killed them. In their fury to end
an evil, they had committed one.

Uthiln covered his scarred face with his hands, rubbing at phantom sand in his
eyes. He had not struck the blow, it was true. But he and the Marshall had
both desperately been swinging at anything moving in the battle that had raged
across the blinding desert. It could have been him. It was just pure chance it
hadn't been.

He had visited his Goddess's shrine, and prayed, and when he was blessed with
her presence, he had brashly boasted of becoming the "Roar of the Jaguar". She
had wisely and gently told him to seek humility. And now here he was, not fit
to even be in her presence. Looking back on his younger self, he was ashamed.
Had he really thought himself worthy?

He looked up at the walls of the Fortress. He had bled for it, fighting those
who would bring it down and what it stood for. And now he brought it shame by
merely existing.

He felt broken again. But unlike the torture by the goblins, it was a crushing
of his spirit. He had stayed strong back then, not because he was the
toughest, or the best with a blade. But because he thought he travelled with
the Light.

He wasn't so sure of that now.

Role

Chapter 5

Let me first off apologize to anyone who actually read that full four pages I
vomited into the ether (legal cannabis is a hell of a thing), and give you a
quick summary.

- As a half-elf in his wood elf community, Uthiln always felt he had to prove
himself, and felt he wasn't good enough. He dwelled on this a little too much.

- Long torture by a goblin tribe has scarred him both physically and mentally,
after witnessing his fellow patrollers killed and eaten.

- The Thrill he feels in combat feels almost spiritual to him, and is what
first awakened his true shamanic powers.

- He left his village to fight capital 'E' Evil and find the shrine of the
Jaguar, after his shamanic elder pierced his eyebrow with three thorns he
called 'Jaguar teeth'.

Role

Chapter 4

"Fight! All of us!" Uthiln paced the room, breathing through his nose. The
scabs and scars on his body reddened. He shook his head.

"The children then? The elderly? They should take up bows and swords?" Hishar
eyed Uthiln. "They are not all made of hardwood like you, boy." The elderly
elf came closer to Uthiln, and put one gnarled hand on his shoulder.

Uthiln hung his head, for of course Hishar was right. He had seen the mass of
goblins himself. The village stood no chance in such a fight.

"The village will be safe, Uthiln. We are wood elves, we move like cottonweed.
But I have seen your future, Uthiln." The half-elf looked up suddenly at that.
Old Hishar had been known to have visions, it was rumored.

The elderly shaman sighed and smiled faintly. "Your future is not here, boy.
You wish to bring the fight to the wicked? It is out there. Lurking." He
reached into his robe and took his fist out, closed gently around something.
"But she who leads the fight against them is out there too."

He opened his fist, and three extremely sharp thorns were nestled in his palm.
He handled them carefully, lest he draw blood.

"Jaguar teeth, they are called," Hishar said quietly. "Grown on a plant in a
land far away, and one I have not seen in some time. I wore them once." He
pointed to his eyebrow, and Ulthin could indeed make out six old puckered
marks above and below it.

"There is no assurance she will accept you," Hishar continued. "But this
village is too small for you. You have encountered tragedy and horror, and
still wish to fight. That is a strong thing in some, but it can burn those
around it. Seek Baerinika's guidance out."

Hishar looked again into Uthiln's eyes. They stared back unflichingly. Hishar
nodded, and clasped Uthiln's scabbed and scarred jaw in one suddenly strong
hand, while the other held one of the thorns. "Hold still. This will hurt."

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?"

Role

Chapter 2

The goblin's dark eyes suddenly misted over, growing opaque and hazy, and it
screamed in agony. Uthiln caught it with both his hands. It felt feather light
as the strength continued to surge through him. He brought it down on his knee
with a sickening crack, and threw the crumpled form aside.

He looked back up at the rim of the suddenly quiet Pit, eyes blazing.

The goblins peered down at him, jaws hanging open, eyes shifting to each other
fearfully.

One piped up, unseen from beyond the edge of the Rim, "Heys! Dat not fai..."
but was suddenly shushed by a swell of angry mutterings.

The crowd parted before a tall goblin with a feathered crown, carrying a
staff. It looked down at him with rheumy eyes. They widened as they took in

"This elfie blessed! Not want, not want! Get elfie out! Now! Now!!" It shook
its staff at the goblins, and they hastily grabbed a narrow, long ladder.

I could destroy all of them, Uthiln thought. For what they did, he would
destroy them. Yes! Each and every... And like that, the strength was gone. He
almost collapsed as the pain rushed back, his shoulders slumping.

What was he thinking? He chastised himself as he limped up the ladder, trying
to look as strong as he had felt earlier, and failing miserably. Yet the
goblins still shied away from him, and when he reached the top, most of them
had scattered into the miserable, muddy camp at the top.

Their shaman remained, however, keeping its staff pointed at him from a safe
distance.

"Leave now elfie! Now!" And it hissed as it backed away towards the shanties
of the camp.

He wished he could kill the wretched thing, for what it had did to his
companions, and countless others. But he could barely stand, so he hissed
back, his spit mixed with blood, and backed away into the woods.

He came across a wide river. He rested against a tree with his elbow, and took
some deep, painful breaths. He had been elf enough for the goblins, at least,
hadn't he? He grinned despite his situation, his teeth smeared with blood, and
followed the river downstream as the sun set.

Role

Chapter 1

The gnarled club hit Uthiln in the chest.

The breath rushed out of him, and he doubled over in pain. The young
half-elf's arms wrapped around his torso and he dropped to his knees.

The goblin gurgled a laugh and leapt, holding the heavy stick with both claws
over his head, bringing it swiftly down towards Uthiln's head. The half-elf
desperately tucked his arms in tighter and rolled just out of the way, a
whistling sound as the club thudded into the ground, pinning a black lock of
Uthiln's hair that was ripped painfully out by the roots. The goblin chattered
angrily as the blow reverberated up his lanky green arms. The roar of many
voices hooted at the goblin's rage.

Uthiln wheezed as he managed to find the strength to roll away up to his feet,
looking up the thirty foot sides of the Pit, at the goblins who looked eagerly
down, clapping and howling. How many fights was this? Twenty? Twenty-one? He
was the last one left. Faiyan had died the day before last, her head shattered
by a stone axe hastily thrown down by one of the onlookers.

They had been caught a fortnight ago. Uthiln's first patrol, finally granted
by his elders. A half-elf couldn't keep up, it was known. They could barely
fumble to string a bow, of course. It wasn't his fault, they assured him. It
just was.

But he had begged and finally they had relented. And here he was. Dashil had
fallen first in the ambush, the purest of wood elves. He had strung his bow
quickly, true. It hadn't helped with the knife a cunning goblin managed to
slip in his back, though.

Some of them were captured. Deryn had been eaten promptly once they arrived at
the goblin camp. The others provided entertainment in the Pit, after breakfast
every day, lowered down on ladders and at spearpoint. Any goblin that had
incurred their chief's wrath was sent down to fight against one of the
"elfies". And a lot of goblins incurred their chief's wrath. When an elfie
died, well, lunch was served.

And now he was the last. The half-elf. How was he here? He would be a good
mediator with the humans, they said. He was a good apprentice to Hishar, their
spiritual leader, he could mend minor wounds. But he hadn't learned any true
supplications. And he had never been the best fighter, it was true. But he was
here and they were not.

He looked up at the mass of goblins standing over the rim cheering. The goblin
had recovered and was barreling toward him, howling. A shiver ran up Uthiln's
back, and suddenly strength surged through him. His vision sharpened, and the
thudding pain in both his old and new wounds wafted away as if by a warm
breeze.

Time slowed and he heard a harsh muttering that he realized was him. He was
calling for the divine in a language that felt both foreign and intimately
familiar.

Time snapped back and he hissed the words at the goblin as it leapt for his
face, claws searching, club forgotten.

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