Gart staggered exaggeratedly towards it, and managed to look comically horrified. "Crikey, me hair's all falled out!" he shrieked. "And look at you!"
Akaru obligingly looked into the mirror. "Ai!" he cried, "I'm growing fangs and claws!"
He licked his long canines menacingly and eyed the closest soldier's leg. "I'm beginning to fancy some *long pig. Arrr!" With that, he bit the soldier, who yelped and hit Akaru ineffectually with the pommel of his sword.
Akaru and Gart had laughed uproariously at this . . .
. . . all the way to the brig, where they found themselves confined for the compulsory ten days.
This led to years of trying to outdo one another, playing a dangerous game with life. The greater the danger, the greater the risk they took.
As Akaru moved up in the ranks, he took his soldiers, daring men, dwarves and elves alike, on his wild escapades. For years he had cheated death, taunted it . . . defied it. To the soldiers of Brand under his command he was superhuman. He vanquished his foes always by daring them to do the impossible, which he himself seemed able to accomplish with impunity. To flinch in battle with Akaru was to die.
And Akaru never flinched.
Once, alone, cut off from his fellows and pursued by several goblins, he came across a narrow log that traversed a deep ravine. To fall was to die, and the log itself was wet, slippery, stripped of bark. He made his stand on the center of the log, wielding naught but a quarterstaff, and dared the goblins to pursue him.