<table class="bbc_table"><tbody><tr><td>(http://www.dfwd20.com/photopost/data/522/medium/Human_Fighter1.jpg)</td><td><strong><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: edwardian;"><span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 2.65em;">Alfreic Slate, Soldier</span></span><br/><em>Front Lawn of Avonleigh:  To Martin</em><br/></strong><hr/>The crimsoned skull of a wight beckoned him and plodded towards him, humming its dead song sonorously.  Alfreic thought of ten ways to destroy it--but they were not tremendously imaginative ways, I assure you.  Tried and true?  Indeed.  However, before the skull could manifest in the space that Alfreic threatened, the wight became Martin-- an old friend.  Throughout his exotic daydream, Alfraic had remained calm, but his heartbeat was still pounding, his knuckles were now white and his masculinity was somewhat rigid due to the venomous thoughts of blood.<br/><br/>Curious that a man like Alfraic should have a friend in the world, but the soldier nevertheless took Martin's hands in his and held him like a firm acquaintance.  The soldier said nothing, however, but merely looked to the rest of the party, as if to say:  who are these people?  His eyes were narrowed slits of fire now, full of vinegar and hatred, but his face was passive and tempered like canyons creviced by ancient rivers.<br/></td></tr></tbody></table>