Fraevon cut a disconsolate figure as he sat thumbing the few remaining arrows in his quiver.
“What troubles you my friend?” enquired Rohlen, his sight starting to return gifting him a renewed vision on the camp’s mood.
The Elf stood. “I fear our quest may be an impossible one.”
“Impossible? Or perhaps a difficult task that requires a new approach?”
“Spare me the psychology Rohlen,” he replied turning his back on the still seated mage. “There’s an army of undead walking those streets and we have no way of dealing with them.”
“Would more of those help?”
“Even if I had a quiver full, it would scratch but a slither of the number that awaits us.”
“What about an unlimited supply?”
Fraevon turned, his eyes questioning such a prospect.
“Gift me just one, and for a day you shall be rewarded thus.”
Entrigued, Fraevon withdrew an arrow from his quiver placing it gently within the outstretched palms of the mage. Violent flashes of bright orange danced around Rohlen’s hand, momentarily consuming the arrow in a brilliant light, before then dying to leave it as it was gifted.
“Is that it?”
“That is it,” replied Rohlen offering the arrow back to the Elf.
“Despatch the arrow and all will become clear.”
“So mage,” enquired the dwarf. “You’ve gifted him an unlimited supply of arrows. Why not courage? Courage to wield a proper weapon, with heart and rage, so as to look into his enemies eyes as he feels their last breath in his face before they crumble before him.”
“Courage is what I will have etched on your tombstone,” replied the Elf. “When one of those hordes catch a lucky scratch or bite, then my arrow stops the agonising pain as you wrestle with your sanity before joining them.”
“Pfft!” scoffed the dwarf. “Shoot an arrow at me and I’ll come back as a ghost to haunt you.”
“You already do,” mumbled the mage.
With renewed vigour, Fraevon began making his way to the tunnel opening, the arrow notched ready. For the first time in his adult life, his hands trembled.