The fire in the hut burned low, its meager light flickering over bundles of fragrant herbs, animal skins, and the glassy black edge of an obsidian ceremonial knife. It caused strange, deep shadows on the face of the old man who sat over it, staring into its depths, both hands clinging to his gnarled staff. Rain drummed on the roof and faraway thunder rolled ominously through the night, but his eyes never left the flickering flames. The door to his hut banged open, accentuated by a particularly close clap of thunder. "Ta'aliss!" the young brave shouted, rain streaming down his body as he barged into the hut. "She has died, Ta'aliss." The old man did not look up from the fire. "And the boy?" "Escaped. We hunted him down, but were driven off by a witch-woman." "Hm." Ta'aliss reached out with the bottom of his staff and stirred the dying embers before him. "Plague in the tribe, witches in the woods, death and storms and the escape of the anh'urlal ." He looked up at the brave with half-blind eyes. "These are days of poor omens, Delrazur." "I know, Ta'aliss. I promise you, we will find him, and we will kill him." The young warrior's voice brimmed with emotion, his eyes glistening wet in the stirred firelight. "It makes my heart heavy, but it must be done. Even if he does not know it, he is the death of us." "The anh'urlal, " Delrazur said, his fists tightening at his sides as the hated word slipped past his lips. "Yes. Here," the old man lurched to his feet, leaning against his staff, and hobbled over to the table, picking up the intricately-worked obsidian knife. "May the ghosts of our ancestors guide you to preserve us," he intoned, handing the blade to the brave. Delrazur accepted the knife and slipped it into his belt. "It will find its new home in Zaradur's heart," he said, and walked back out into the stormy night. Ta'aliss sat back down, a dying man in front of a dying fire, priest of a dying tribe...
