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[Keia]

Warrick Steel

Warrick had heard the call go out earlier in the morning, a dwarven plea to arms against a goblinoid horde. The young yet weathered elf brushed at a stray hair, tucking the blud/black unruly strands back behind his ear. The call peeled louder, closer, a hint of desperation in the dwarf's deep rumble. Warrick shook his head to the negative as his teeth gritted, a popping noise coming from his jaw. He had wanted to just sit at the bar and drink . . . he had earned that right, earned it in blood.

The elven ranger had tried it before . . . tried to throw his life away when the pain got too great. He was young, and the world had seemed so crystal clear back then. It was only the eladrin known as Aleyssia that had managed to calm his boiling blood at the time . . . to give him the focus that he did not feel himself, a purpose even.

It was no coincidence that the call to stand against the coming horde came so soon after Warrick had learned . . . 'too soon' . . . he couldn't even think it or his vision would see only red.

He stood, resolute, determined as a proud man could be heading to the gallows. The elf walked to the wagon and sat on the edge, saying nothing, the hard line of his lips and his furrowed brow brooking no conversation. There was nothing to say, his fate had already been determeined. That could be the only result, he had been saved years before so that he could face this horde now . . . saved so that his death would have more meaning today.

Meaning was fine for those left behind . . . for Warrick, he'd still be dead.