Cheers sounded. Raised voices in a frenzy of jubilation - the cacophony of warriors glad to have survived. Between the cheering group of dwarven priests, and the hunter pack tending to their beasts, Othar sat quietly on a rock at the peak of the hill, breathing deeply. It had been touch and go there for a while.
His clothes were wet - Hells, everyone was soaked through. The very air in this gloomy hole in the bedrock was saturated with damp. What had she said again? "Water is life!"? For Othar, that phrase conjured up images of deep, glacial lakes in Dun Morgh, of icy streams, pregnant with snowmelt, of dark still pools deep within the mountains at Gnomeregan - at least, before the troggs came. The rank, tepid lakes of the Cavern, thick with the filth of the snake-folk, was only a parody of life - much in line with its mistress.
Othar glanced up, casting his eye over the stiffening form of the Coilfang Matriarch. A layer of slime, slowly congealing in the underground heat lent to the stench of decay pervading the cave. Those ever-moving snake heads still moved, denying the truth of death. Othar shuddered, and looked away - at the lake, at the walls, at the group of people gathering around the snake.
So many faces - it was hard to look at one face without remembering all the others who were not present. The dwarven priests, busily tending to the wounded, scattering their blessed water (brewed strongly) across the crowd; the short hunter, sawing off one of those waving head-snakes to make a soup; the indominatable gnomish warrior, resharpening her weapons; and all the others, starting to examine the spoils of victory. So many new faces, so many old faces, and those fallen along the way.
Reaching into his pocket, Othar brought out the vial he had removed from the snake. Containing a tiny amount of clear liquid, this was reason for the struggle. Did the dragon-folk really know the efforts and sacrifices needed to retrieve this little drop of water? How many more groups had they sent out, to their demise? Was it really worth the sacrifice?
The faces of the fallen ran through his mind, as Othar turned the vial in the dim light of the cavern. As the liquid turned in the vial, overlarge for his hand, pinpoints of light sparked within, conveying aspects of depth and possibility, belying the appearance of a simple liquid. As the radiance grew around him, so did Othar's confidence in what might be. With this power recovered from the snakes, there was no telling what aspects of the future were beyond this group of people.
Othar stood, fixing the faces of the group present with the faces of those not. What was, may come again. Those who fell, may return. What is growing can continue to mature, especially with the light of the vials to power it.
Taking a deep breath, Othar moved toward the crowd, satisfied in the light of Possibility.
<Tempered> - Enduring