War Torn (1x1)

inkdragon

Understandably Confused
Freezing.

It was freezing.

Niobe should probably have been thinking any of a hundred other things as she stared around at the wreckage of her home, struggled to her feet, then sank down again as the corridor swam dizzily- but by the gods, it was freezing. The huge glass windows overlooking the mountains had shattered, the barrier between her world and the fierce storms outside destroyed. The temple was in ruins, she was vaguely aware she probably had a mild concussion from the head wound that had put her out, and the others... well, she hadn't seen anyone alive since she'd woken.

Easier to concentrate on the cold.

She wasn't sure how long she stayed like that, crouched against the wall, taking deep breaths and willing her vision to return. Slowly, though, the lightheaded feeling passed, the swirling gray at the edge of her sight receded, and she found it in herself to stand. Her hand found her head. The blood caking her temple was thick and clotted, telling her she had been out for a while. Niobe knew it should have hurt, touching the wound, but everything only felt cold and numb. Freezing freezing freezing.

Where was Master Grimborn? He had told her to run and hide, but she had disobeyed, running only as far as the southern front of the temple to face the invaders there. She passed body after body as she slowly made her way down the hall on unsteady legs. After five dead, she stopped checking them for pulses.

"Hello?" Stupid. If the enemy was still here, if they could hear her, she would be killed. Niobe was in no shape to fight and she knew it. Her best course of action would be to stay quiet, proceed with caution, look for survivors. But panic was setting in fast, and while a small part of her mind understood the situation, that part was no longer in control. "Hello?!" She rounded the corner, breaking into a run that tested her balance so she didn't have to look around. "Anyone?!"
 
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The stone steps carved into he base of the mountain wound their way along narrow precipices and sheer faces. The rocky path wound on and on, and the air grew thinner and thinner the higher one went upwards, torturing one's mind and body as they ascended to the monastery resting high above. At the base, the spring blooms surged with life, painting the world in vivid greens and blue and reds and yellows. The steps seemed to bring one to a different world, one in a perpetual winter, where life seemed to be held at bay. Some tough moss grew on the walls, and the most daring of eagles made their nests in the craggy faces of the mountain. It was near the snowline, as the scents and warmth of the spring below left, that Jorsek could finally smell the undercurrents of smoke tainting the crisp, frigid mountain air.

The air was cold, his feet and legs tired, and his pack heavy, but his mind kept its focus on its goal, tuning out everything except the marching ascent to the peak, towards the ancient shrines that the Order of Ilmater, as well as his old ancestors, called home. He could feel the solid, plain earthen ceramic urns clink against each other in his pack, the lids shifting softly with each step. It was for family, Jorsek told himself. Take them back to their home, so that in death they may finally have peace.

Finally reaching the crest, the steps left him on the western side of the mountaintop, staring at the ruined staircase leading upwards to the peak. He knew why he had smelled the smoke. Piles of ash, the remnants of torched books and banners lined the stairs continuing upward. The monks, clad in their sky blue robes, were scattered about, the blood trailing from their bodies frozen, gentle drifts of snow already beginning to form as their bodies blocked the wind. Grand pillars were toppled, the stones broken and scattered about. The braziers, old, brass pieces meant to hold magical fire for days on end, were snuffed out, another casualty of the vicious invasion that had taken place. Glass was scattered along the steps, and the charred remains of several priests rested in a pile of ash, along with the half burnt ends of furniture that had been used to burn them.

Jorsek shivered. The wind was slow, but pierced like knives with cold felt to the bone. He pulled his threadbare cloak tighter, around his poor clothes. He dreaded thinking of what night would be like. He proceeded forward, continuing up the ancient steps. His shoes echoed through the silence, with the third leg of his staff ringing out as it struck the rough hewn stone. Everything else seemed so silent, so dead. Somewhere, he heard a calling, panicked words in the distance. He dismissed them.. They seemed too far, too remote. Family first, then all else.

Finally, at the peak, on a ledge overlooking the wide world below, the flowing rivers and rambling hills and forests all visible through a veil of mist. A single, plain altar stood at the edge. Sockets, with what probably once held valuable stones, were empty, taken by the raiders. He didn't know what the altar was for, but it seemed the most sacred place in the monastery. It would have to do.

Jorsek leaned the staff against the ransacked altar, and gently set his pack atop the altar. He gingerly retrieved the urns, and set them delicately on the altar. The weight of his task finished, he slumped to the ground, sheltered from the wind in the shadow of the altar. He closed his blind, white eye. "You're home." He whispered.

The wind picked up slightly, and pushed the quarterstaff to the ground, smacking loudly against the hard stone surface. Slowly, it rolled down the snow covered steps, clattering loudly as it rolled into the plaza below. Jersak looked down, and saw one of the monks still alive, panicked in the plaza below. He closed his eye, and leaned back against the altar. His pilgrimage was over.
 
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A sound echoing through the remnants gave Niobe pause. The steady crack of a walking stick across stone floors. Someone else was alive! Biting down the sob of relief that threatened to tear itself from her throat, she rushed towards the source of the sound, the Grand Courtyard. She fell several times in her haste, shards of glass tearing into her bare hands, but the slight pain didn't register. All that was important was finding the other survivor. As she entered the plaza, she was nearly sick. Here, bodies littered the floors, even more so than in the twisting corridors she had woken up in. It made sense, of course so many monks had spent their last breaths fighting to ensure the sanctity of Ilmater's Altar.

The Altar. Niobe stared in abject horror up the stone steps at its' ruin. The few decorative stones had been ripped from their casing, the drapings had been burned, the statue of Ilmater himself had been tossed aside, lying cracked by the edge of the staircase, ready to fall. And a boy, some outsider boy in a worn traveling cloak, stood in front of it, in the footsteps of Masters of old. Her voice seemed to fail her and she could only watch helplessly as he unloaded his pack, treating the Altar like a mere table with which he could do as he pleased. She couldn't see what it was he set upon the table, some sort of jars, perhaps? But then he slumped to the ground, huddled against the wind, and some of Niobe's anger evaporated. She didn't know who this traveler was or when he had come here; he may very well have been injured in the raid. And besides, it had not been he who had destroyed the Altar. It was still her job to serve and protect, even after... even after.

The traveler's staff fell, then, and rolledd down the steps, clattering the whole way. He looked up, and she nearly flinched at his eye. His one eye. The other was covered by a strip of simple cloth. The one she could see, though, was milky and blind and clearly useless. But his gaze fixed on her anyway, and she had a sudden wave of resentment towards him. Of all the people who could have survived, it couldn't have been one of the Masters, someone to lead her and tell her what her next steps should be. It couldn't have been one of the other apprentices, her peers and childhood friends, students of an ancient tradition who would have known better than to climb those damned steps. It couldn't have been someone who would have helped her, no, instead it was this outsider boy who needed her help.

"Hello?" She fought the tremor in her voice, keeping it strong but soothing, like the Healers did to calm a panicked initiate. "Are you hurt?" She hesitated to climb the steps out of instinct, but the time for formalities was past. In the wake of all this desecration, an apprentice climbing to the Altar would be forgivable. Besides, someone had to pick up Ilmater's statue.

"I am Niobe Samandda, of the Order of Ilmater." Her voice echoed through the stone hall. She used the words she would have used at her induction as a full member of the Order, the ceremony where she was supposed to have climbed these steps for the first time. Somehow, it felt right. "Y-you don't need to be afraid." The assurance was mostly for herself, and even from this distance, she could tell the strange man knew it.
 
"Jorsek Hestova." He replied, eye still closed, his head leaned back against the stone. Her voice sounded troubled, but purposefully calm. It reminded him somewhat of his eldest brother in his final hours, voice panicked but composed as he realized what he had to do. It made his stomach feel sick, thinking that his remains sat in one of the lacquered urns on the altar. His task for family was finished, though, they were home and he was free from their bond, their final wishes fulfilled.

"I climbed the steps this morning." He continued, offering no further explanation. He grabbed his pack from the altar, slinging it down wearily and carelessly onto the ground now that it was empty of its precious cargo. He retrieved a waterskin from within, and looked it over in his hands. He could already feel the chunks of ice forming within, slowly turning the vessel solid. He frowned, and returned it to his pack with a sigh, blowing out a lungful of steam. The air was frigid and dry, and it seemed to suck the moisture out with every breath. His thirst could wait, he decided. It was better to not be cold within and without.

He slowly rose to his feet, back into the wind, and shivered once more. Grabbing his pack, he made his way back down the steps, past Niobe to the plaza, where he retrieved his staff, resting inelegantly against another frozen monk. He gazed around for a moment, looking for a room with a solid door on it. He found the place, tucked against a cliff wall, and turned back to Niobe. "We should get inside, before we freeze to death." He said, the voice echoing loudly, despite saying the words softly.

Jorsek entered the room, pushing open the heavy door. The room was spartan, just a few pieces of wooden furniture and a tapestry on the wall were all that separated the room from complete emptiness. He picked up several of the pieces of wood, what used to be legs of tables and chairs, and tossed them into the small fireplace. They caught easily with a few showers of sparks from flint and steel despite the cold. Perhaps they were simply old and dry enough. Jorsek was grateful, in any case. Slumping down against the wall, Jorsek wondered just how many times he would have committed sacrilege, had the monks been here to call him out on it. There still was a monk to call him out on it, Jorsek realized. Niobe, he remembered. He wondered his his family would have cared.

"Just how old is this place?" He finally asked. He was curious to see just how far back his family ties here might have gone.
 
But when he turned around, only the silence of the empty room greeted him. Niobe hadn't followed him. Instead, she lingered by the Altar, despite every fiber of her being screaming at her that this was wrong, she shouldn't be here, not yet. It wasn't her time. The man, Jorsek, he called himself, had strode down the steps as if he owned them, and Niobe closed her eyes for a moment to control her anger. She refused to bring more hatred to the already destroyed sanctuary.

Crossing the raised platform, Niobe knelt next to the statue of Ilmater, wincing visibly at the cracked stonework. The Masters said that in times of need, the god himself would possess this very statue, offering wisdom to those worthy to receive it. Well, she didn't think the monastery had ever seen a time of need such as this. With trembling hands, she hefted the statue to stand upright again, the icy stone burning her palms.

"Father Ilmater," she murmured, bowing her head. "I come before you to..." She didn't have words. There was no guidebook for this, there was no prayer that would even begin to encompass the situation. Her family, her Order, slaughtered on her god's doorstep. Her hands, still stained with blood that was not her own. Terror and anger rolled in her stomach as for the first time since she had woken up, the shock began to recede enough for her to truly feel their magnitude. Something inside her broke, as surely as the stone statue she knelt before. "I don't know what to do." She squeezed her eyes shut, praying Ilmater would judge her worthy enough, or at least make an exception, given the circumstances. "You have to do something, you have to help me, I don't know what to do!" Her voice rose in pitch and volume, nearly a shout, but even still, the words were whisked away by the wind before they had even fully left her lips.

Breath hitching, Niobe opened her eyes, searching the statue's face desperately. But there was no blinding light from the statue. There was no music. There was no warmth. All she saw was a cracked and crumbling stone face, staring impassively out into the courtyard where so many lay dead. Maybe the statue was dead, too.

No, that was the fear talking, Niobe knew. This was why the masters warned against such emotion, but she couldn't seem to help it. As far as she could tell, she was the only survivor of the attack. Well, her and Jorsek. The outsider. If Ilmater would not speak to her, he would not speak at all. Anyone more worthy than she was gone. She would have to figure this out herself.

She bowed her head again, thanking Ilmater regardless and apologizing for her intrusion at his Altar. As she stood to leave, she caught sight of what it was Jorsek had left on the Altar. Urns. Four, in fact. Niobe suddenly knew without going any further what they were for. She wasn't sure why he would choose the monastery as his loved ones' final resting place, but Jorsek was here for a funeral. She debated taking the urns and moving them to the Hall of Remembrance where they belonged. But that was a long walk, and suddenly, thinking about it, she was more exhausted than she could remember feeling in her life. She glanced at the statue of Ilmater for approval. It didn't seem to care.

Once again, she had the realization. Everything was gone. Ilmater hadn't helped them, hadn't helped her. What was the point of tradition, anyway, when hundreds of years could be wiped away in an evening?

Niobe turned from the Altar and followed Jorsek inside, into one of the masters' meeting rooms. There were no bodies here, for which she was grateful. She didn't think she could deal with another corpse, whether it wore familiar blue robes or enemy red. Jorsek had built a fire and was sitting beside it, looking around for something. Probably her, she realized. She didn't bother to explain herself. "You shouldn't be here," she told him quietly, but there was no real force behind the words. "This temple isn't for you." Drawn by the warmth, she moved closer to the hearth and sat by Jorsek's side. She didn't look at him, instead staring into the flames. "I left their ashes there."
 
The fire crackled on, the only other noise apart of the drifting wind, muted with the shut door. The room was growing steadily warmer with the fire burning away, but the chill still wasn't fully dispersed. Jorsek threw another scrap off wood lying nearby into the fire. He stared at Niobe with his blind eye as she entered, then turned back to himself.

He didn't respond for a while after Niobe spoke, his mind drifting and wandering. The temple he had journeyed to was attacked the day before he arrived, letting him wander through a veritable graveyard as he moved the remains of his family to their final resting place. Finally he responded, his voice low and passive. "It was my father's final wish that his remains be taken to the Order of Ilmater. I don't know when farmers from the Selunid Plains came to be connected to this place, but I was told this was my ancestors' home, many years ago." He looked at the wall ahead of him as he spoke, looking away from Niobe.

"I didn't know what I would find when I came here. Certainly not this place, desecrated the day before my arrival. A day later, and I might have been the only soul here. A day earlier, and I may have been counted among the fallen." He turned silent again. Absentmindedly, he picked at the hem of his threadbare cloak. It was practically see through, almost no help in this kind of cold, but it was better than nothing. He had brought it all the way from home., one of the few possessions that hadn't been replaced or destroyed in the past few years. When would be the day, he wondered, when a gale would tip those urns over, spilling the ashes onto the altar, the wind carrying them far away. He didn't want to be there when they did.

"Thank you." He finally said.to Niobe, eyes cast down.
 
Jorsek's thanks stung, though Niobe couldn't fully understand why. She supposed it rubbed her wrong, being thanked for allowing the sacrilege to stand. But rather than say anything of the like, she shrugged, offering a shaky smile. "I-I don't think there'll be much space left in the Hall of Remembrance after this, anyway." The weights of all those lost sat heavy in her gut. She had ran past the bodies of childhood friends, teachers and mentors, people she called her brothers and sisters. There was nothing in the deepest archives that spoke of this much loss, all at once. She would have to preform dozens, hundreds of funerals, all by herself. And she didn't even know why.

The Scarlet Brotherhood, the raiders had called themselves. Monks of a different monastery, one based so far south that Niobe didn't know anyone who had ever made the journey there and back. She had read of them, true, but only briefly. No one had worried about an attack. They hadn't thought they needed to. "I don't understand why anyone would do such a thing," she said quietly, not even realizing she had spoken aloud. This amount of death and destruction made her stomach sick to even think about. Yes, her training had included combat, but oh, it was so different. She had fought, yes. But looking at the blood that literally stained her hands, she vowed she never would again.

"You didn't find anyone else alive?" Niobe didn't want to hear the answer, but she needed to. She wouldn't believe it until she heard the words.
 
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Hall of Remembrance? So they did have a place for the dead. Jorsek sighed. Perhaps his family would have preferred the altar, resting on the highest peak for miles around. He didn't know. He rubbed at his eye, tired. He was too exhausted to think, emotionally and physically. Once more, his head drooped back against the wall, his eyes closed. "The war was long and exhausting, Niobe Samandda. The people rallying under the banner of Kaladash fought against the Order. My family counts among those killed in the war, by the Order. If it wasn't for their final wishes, perhaps I would have carried the same reckless hate." He said absentmindedly in reply. "If it quells the fire burning in their heart, then the Scarlet Brotherhood will do anything in order to do so."

Jorsek pulled the staff into his lap, and gripped its weathered surface tightly. Another item that had lasted him through the past few years of his pilgrimage. He spun the staff in his grip, working his fingers over the familiar grooves and notches in its long, smooth surface. His mind was blank as he grabbed another piece of wood and tossed it into the fire, clattering against the stone backing before falling in to the steadily growing bed of coals, and flaring up again.

"I saw no one alive, other than you. No person passed me on the ascent, either. The Brotherhood must have left in the night." He hesitated, then offered, "I'm sorry."
 
The apology meant nothing to her, for nothing is what it would do to bring back the dead. Niobe nodded, pulling her knees up close to her chest. "Maybe someone escaped and went for help." But she knew it was unlikely, nigh impossible. The Brotherhood had been blocking all paths in and out of the monastery. They would have caught anyone trying to break past, and Niobe knew none of her Order would have been so cowardly as to flee while their people fought and died on the snowy mountainside. The words hung in the air, polluting it with a hope she couldn't convince herself to feel. She studied Jorsek's face as he closed his eyes once more and leaned back against the wall in his exhaustion. He didn't seem to mind the silence, maybe even preferred it as much as she did. Jorsek needed time to rest, she needed time to think.

He was young- were he a member of the Order, he would likely still be an apprentice, albeit on the very edge of his full induction. And yet everything about him, from the way he carried himself to the lines on his brow, it all spoke of a fatigue far deeper than the simple physical exhaustion his climb had brought him. This was a man who strode through a courtyard littered with the fallen and did not once stoop to check for breath. Not because he was hateful or heartless, but because the scene was too familiar and his knowledge of the chances too real. Niobe still didn't understand why the Scarlet Brotherhood would commit such atrocities in the name of a war that had ended over a decade past, but from the weary way Jorsek spoke, it was clear he thought it was obvious.

Why, even after receiving an explanation, did Niobe feel so confused?

In the silence, she pulled her wet outer robe from her shoulders, using the sleeve to meticulously clean the dried blood from her hands, knees, and head before laying it out flat to dry. Soaking wet, it did her no good. Niobe might want nothing more than to pull the thick fabric closer around her shoulders and hide from the world, but logic advised her that the icy water so close to her skin would only keep her from warming up.

She needed to use that logic now, figure out her next move. What could she possibly do, alone in a temple that had become a tomb? She would cremate the dead, and then what? Rebuild? The stonework alone would take years for a skilled team of craftsmen to repair. And if she could somehow restore the building, it would still be only her wandering the empty halls. With no initiates in the nursery, no students in the classrooms, and no masters in the chapel, what was the point of a grand shrine to a god who had aband-

Before Niobe could even finish the thought she broke it off. She might not understand what had happened, but that was absurd. Her focus needed to remain on the challenge at hand, not some ridiculous crisis of faith. What would her master have done, had he been the only survivor? Grimborn, the proud old dwarf, he probably would have thrown himself from the mountaintop, opting to join his Order and his god in the afterlife. Niobe refused to think of him like that, frozen solid beneath a snowdrift. It didn't matter anyway, she could never take that final step into the abyss. Maybe it was wisdom and maybe it was weakness, but her sense of self-preservation would never allow it.

So if she couldn't stay and couldn't take her life, that left... Leaving. Leaving and going where, though? Niobe had only left the monastery a few times in her life, and always in a group, for nothing more than a short trip to one of the villages at the base of the mountains. Sometimes masters were sent further, as diplomats of Ursova or escorts to a trading party, but they always came back. Nobody just left the temple without the intent of return.

"Almost makes me wish they had killed me with the rest," she said aloud, adding more fuel to the fire. She didn't know if Jorsek was asleep or not, and she didn't particularly care. There may have been another human directly beside her, but thinking again of the impassive statue on the altar, Niobe knew she was well and truly on her own.
 
"No." Jorsek replied in response to Niobe's last statement. it was definitive, leaving no room for argument. "There is always something more after loss than death." He said. In truth, he wasn't even sure where he was going with this himself, especially when he was in a similar situation, but when the words came to his lips, he didn't hold them back.

"I... you.... we, we have nothing. Just the clothes on our back, and that's all." He had grown aware of the fact over the past several months, but this was his first time truly admitting it. "No tasks, no responsibility, no order. And I suppose all we really search for it order, some kind of structure in our lives. If I wanted, I could scrounge up some money, and scratch out a living on a plot of land back home in the Selunid plains, and repeat that every cycle until I finally die of old age." Jorsek kicked out with his boot, scattering a piece of wood out across the room.

"We're free from everything right now Niobe. Everything. We can do anything we want. We could search for powerful magic to bring them back. We could wander out in revenge. We could set out and seek a new life, searching for wealth. We could join a church. Any number of things, Niobe. Any number of things. We just have to reach out-" he raised his hand in the air, reaching out as if to pluck something from the air. "-and grasp it."
 
The surety in Jorsek's voice startled Niobe, and she chewed her lip as she listened. Anyone else, she would have scoffed at, but Jorsek, he was in the same spot she was, wasn't he? If anyone could understand what she was feeling now, it was another orphan of the war. But it was different. The possibilities he saw as endless opportunity filled her with a terror to match the cold. She had never had this many choices in her life, and she had never wished for them, either. The way Jorsek spoke, it was like he had everywhere to go, but Niobe felt more like she had nowhere.

Something gave her pause. Revenge. She hadn't even been thinking of it, but once she had heard the word, it rattled around her head as if it were the only word in there. Suddenly, she wanted nothing more than to make the Scarlet Brotherhood hurt the way she had hurt up on the Altar. She wanted them to know loss like she did now, and she wanted to see it happen.

But what would that mean, really? another part of her asked. Niobe looked down at her hands, at the rings of red lingering under her fingernails. Her mind flew back for a moment to the heat of the battle, where her own fists had drawn shouts of pain. She had lost her daggers somewhere along the way, and she was glad for it. She had carved the handles herself as an initiate, never really understanding their use. She had never considered what it would be like to clean someone's blood from the carvings she had so proudly shown the weapons master. Niobe hated what she had done, hated what the Brotherhood had made her do. Even so, a dark little voice whispered she should have done more.

"We?" was what she found herself asking, raising her gaze to his. She hated how badly she wanted to not be alone right now. "Together?" The ugly word, revenge, was gone, at least for the moment, and she thanked Ilmater for the small mercy.
 
Jorsek didn't intent for the words to be used to unite them. At least, not originally. Niobe did bring up a fair point, though. They could travel together, and it would certainly be safer for the both of them. He barely knew the land from vague directions and the scarce sign on the road, and Niobe probably knew the surrounding area, but not much more. The farmer rolled the words around in his head for a moment, tilting it side to side, before finally saying the word definitively. "We. Yes, I think. We."

He opened his bag, and rummaged inside it, before finally pulling out a small oilskin package. He unwrapped it to reveal ropes of hard, dry jerky, salted and peppered with some simple seasoning. Jorsek grabbed a length of it, and handed it to Niobe, before taking a piece of his own, and setting it on the floor between them. He wasn't particularly hungry, and hardly had the stomach for it, but he hadn't eaten all day, and knew he needed to put something in his stomach. He gnawed on the bitter end of the jerky, grinding it between his teeth to soften it. Cold and hard, the jerky was more akin to galvanized iron, with added salt.

The food hung limply from the side of his mouth as he chewed morosely. "What was you dream, as a child?" He suddenly asked, curious. "Outside of the monastery, I mean. Somewhere you wanted to see, something you wanted to do or learn? If there's a place to start, long forgotten dreams would be the place."
 
"Outside the monastery?" Niobe asked, shaking her head. "I didn't- I don't-" she took a moment to put her thoughts together, playing with the string of jerky.

"It wasn't that I didn't think about the outside world," she finally said, speaking slowly as if to feel the weight of the words. "But it wasn't my world to dream about. It was so far away from what I had, and what I had always felt like enough. I didn't spend my time wishing for another's life when I could instead be working on my own." Master Grimborn had always been adamant on that. Wishing and daydreaming brought nothing but wasted hours, while hard work brought the most sincere rewards.

It somehow felt like she had avoided Jorsek's question even while answering it, and for a moment, Niobe thought she saw a flicker of something on his face. Disappointment? Disbelief? Scorn? She couldn't tell. All of Jorsek's quirks and behaviors were so different from those of the monks she had lived her whole life with, and she found them startlingly difficult to read. The expression was gone almost before she noticed it, and Niobe couldn't tell if it had even been there at all. She didn't know why she felt so defensive. There was nothing wrong with dreaming of the life you had. Still, a need she didn't understand pushed her to think back, find something to say that would satisfy Jorsek's stupid question.

There had been something, once, she remembered. A question she had asked so long ago it almost felt more like a dream than a memory. "I did use to wonder about my family," Niobe admitted after a beat. "My birth mother and father. We aren't supposed to, you know. We are taught the Order is our family, and it's enough. But I could never seem to help myself." The curiosity had been too much, and she had asked over and over again, only to be denied each time. "Some children are given freely by their parents when they begin to show signs of a divine gift. I went down once with a group from the monastery to pick up a little boy." The hint of a smile pulled at the corner of her lip, but it faded. "Others are from poorer families who cannot feed another mouth, or one of the orphanages in the foothills. More are from the orphanages these days." The war had made sure of that. "It didn't matter, in the end, and I wasn't supposed to ask, so eventually I stopped."

There. Satisfied she had proved herself to be more than some emptyheaded little girl, Niobe sat back and tore another bite off the frozen jerky. "And what of you, farm boy?" she asked, eager to get off the topic. "You said you could go back, buy some land of your own, and settle down. But you don't want to." She tipped her head as she watched Jorsek. "You made it here, you laid them to rest. So what is it you feel you still need to do?"
 
"What do I need to do?" Jorsek asked, the question directed at himself as much as Niobe. He sifted through childhood memories, searching for the answers. Life had become serious years ago, and Jorsek stopped dreaming about it. Dreams didn't help when life forced you to be so real. What was it he had discarded so many years ago?

"The ocean. I always wanted to see the ocean." It seemed right, something his former self would have wanted. "It was a traveling bard I saw in the tavern... no, I remember now. It was a carnival. My parents had taken my brothers and I into town to sell the season's crop at the harvest festival." The sounds, the smells, they all rushed back. "There was a storytellers, a traveler who told tales to the children. We were all gathered around him, sitting in the dirt as we listened. 'The ocean is like a blue blanket.' He called out." Jorsek smiled. It was a warm memory, from better times. "'The crest of each salty wave reflects the sun, and from a distance, it's like a million diamonds scattered across its surface.' We were all farmer's children. For some of us, this was the farthest we would ever get from home. We would never see the ocean, never see a diamond, but the tale was vivid, and I longed to see it myself. 'The waves crash onto shores of pearl white sand, rolling across the flat shore and sliding up the coast, before retreating, and falling back into itself.'"

He contemplated for a while, thinking about anything else he might have missed. "There was always hope of being a powerful knight, of marrying a princess and living in a castle, of running away and living life in search of buried treasure." Jorsek hardly knew if she was still listening. Her goals seemed far more lofty in comparison, with more tangible results and more emotional resonance. She searched for the people she shared blood with. It was those ties that brought Jorsek here himself, after all. They weren't easily ignored. "Even as a child, though, I think I knew those were just dreams, things that would never happen. Perhaps that's why I wanted to see the ocean. All that stopped me was distance, and now, having traveled so far, it seems no distance at all."

"You goals are noble, Niobe." He admitted aloud. "Family is important. They will be difficult for you-" He corrected himself, remembering their earlier agreement, "for us, for us to pursue. The land has been ravaged, and they could have flown anywhere in the past years." Jorsek gnawed at the jerky absentmindedly. "Do you know where to start?" He asked.
 
Niobe was so entranced by Jorsek's stories that it took her a moment to realize he had moved back to her. She wished he hadn't. Jorsek spoke of beautiful places and fantastical daydreams she couldn't hope to conjure. Had she ever dreamed like that? Had she ever wanted to explore? Even simply wondering that made guilt twist her stomach. It felt wrong, to want to go, just leave the world behind and go and see the ocean. If she had ever dreamed the way Jorsek dreamed, that had been a lifetime ago.

"They're probably dead," she said matter of factly. It wasn't an emotional statement but a fact. Most of the initiates around her age were rescues from families destroyed in the war. "And even if they are still alive, they wouldn't know me. My family is here." As she spoke, Niobe heard her own words and gave a sad smile, but she didn't try to take them back. "If I were really going to try to find my birth parents, I suppose I would ask around the orphanages nearby. But it was always more of a distant curiosity than the 'noble' quest you're imagining."

"Do you remember before the war?" she asked suddenly. "Back when people would go to the ocean, or spend the day at a carnival because they could?" It seemed like there had always been a war. At one point, she knew from the stories the masters told that there had been more trips out of the mountains. The Order had known the surrounding community well, and travel was common. But as far back as she could remember, leaving the monastery was a rarity, for their safety. It was darkly ironic, that they had all met their end inside the walls they had always considered a sanctuary.
 
Probably dead, Jorsek thought to himself. It was a far fetched chance, but more than worth it, in his mind. Find the graves, at least. He had never set out to find his family thinking they were dead. Perhaps he already knew it, but didn't realize it. Perhaps that was why he only wept when his mother had died. He had been crying for all of them that day. But to just give up? It seemed unfathomable. Absolutely unfathomable. Family, order, and company, in that order. Even if the chance was slim, he felt it had to be done. It wasn't as if it was his family, though. It wasn't his place to force her to chase after decade old trails.

The question was a difficult one to answer, though. Jorsek began reluctantly. "The Selunid Plains are far from the border, deep in the heart of the Kaladash lands. It's mostly scattered farmlands, with nothing of value but the soil. I'm twenty, and the war is older than I am. I always knew it was there, as far back as I can remember, but it never really hit us until the empire was forced to draft its citizens." He crossed his legs, trying to remember details and specifics. "The tithe of grain to the war effort increased each year. It cut into profits, but we always had food on the table still. Taxes were higher than normal as well, and what money we had was usually taken that way." Jorsek shrugged. "I couldn't say just how much different it would be without the war, other than that."

"For us, though, ordinary people, the few festivals, the harvest, the solstice, the new year, they were what we attended, but mostly of necessity. Sell the grain, purchase tools, barter animals, the like. There was no 'fun' most of the time." It made him curious, though about life in the monastery, just what they had, other than religion. "And you? What was your definition of fun?"
 
Niobe listened curiously. It wasn't often she got to hear of life outside the monastery's stone walls, especially from as far as Kaladash territory, and every little bit of information was like a forbidden treat. She didn't let herself think about the fact that every hardship Jorsek had experienced due to the war was caused by her people.

When Jorsek asked about fun at the monastery, though, Niobe actually grinned, a real smile that lit up her face. "Sparring. It was training, of course, but it was a game, too. Once in a while there would be official tournaments for all the initiates and apprentices, and all the masters would come to watch." Master Grimborn had taken her as his apprentice after she had won the tournament some four or five years back. The day still glowed in her memory like no other, bringing warmth to her chest despite the situation.
 
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"Sparring, eh?" Jorsek asked, an amused smile on the corners of his lips. "You must be awfully good at it, if its what you do for fun. I never really learned to fight, myself. Never had the opportunity." He commented. Training in this temple of warrior monks must have been grueling. It made him wonder just how skilled she was compared to people on the outside, knights and bandits and such. He had met more than one along his travels, and their level of skill always seemed so unattainable, in comparison to his. Then again, he wondered if you could really call bashing someone in the head with a quarterstaff 'skill.' At least, the way he fought would never qualify. "Right now, my skill is about summed up by 'farmer with a stick.'"

"Did people ever come to the monestary?" He asked. Jorsek wondered how unusual his arrival would have been had he shown up several days before, when the monks still wandered the halls, instead of now. "Did you ever host festivals or tournaments, and have people come to the mountain from miles around? Would priests wear their finest ceremonial robes, and halls decorated in the most ornate tapestries, or were outsiders barred from entering the mountain completely?" He waited a moment, then explained. "You paint a picture like no one ever entered or left, like this place was cut off from the rest of the world."
 
"It sort of was," Niobe answered, the smile slipping from her face. It fell almost in pieces as she bit by bit remembered herself and the situation. "I didn't leave the temple until I had reached twelve winters, and even then it was only for a two-day trip into Runnfold Valley with my age group. I left again when I was fourteen, with my Master. Most new apprentice and Master pairs go, spend a week or two practicing survival tactics in the mountains. It helps us build trust in each other and learn to work as a team." Thinking about Master Grimborn made something ache in her chest, so Niobe didn't linger much longer on the subject. "I left once more with Master Grimborn a year later, a simple mission delivering a letter to a general passing through the area."

"Not that it was always like that," she added after a beat, brow creasing in a slight frown as she tried to remember. "The Order was not created to hide from the world. Teams of Masters and apprentices used to go out to the surrounding areas on missions all the time. They were medics in towns destroyed by the war, they would help civilians rebuild, they would capture teams of bandits and facilitate democratic elections. We had guests occasionally, though they were not permitted to watch us fight. There were great feasts, and music and dancing." She had owned a set of robes specifically for those occasions, and she had always looked forward to them, although the initiates had never been allowed to speak to the outsiders. That was the masters' job.

"I don't know what happened, but sometime before I was chosen as an apprentice, during my initiate years, they closed the doors. Only a select few teams would go out on missions, and they were shorter tasks, as opposed to the projects from earlier days. And we didn't have visitors anymore."

Niobe swallowed, remembering the day she had asked Master Grimborn about the changes. She had been young and foolish, and eager to see the world beyond the stone walls she knew, she had asked when they would be getting heir first mission. When he told her they wouldn't, she had first been confused, then angry. All her training, all her years of work, and for what- to sit around and meditate? While civilians suffered outside? What was the purpose of the Order at all, then? Her punishment had been swift, and harsh but fair. Five lashes on the back, in front of her age group. She had been lucky it hadn't been in front of the whole monastery. "I was discouraged from asking about it."
 
"From grand feasts and tournaments, to a secluded group of monks hidden in the mountains, carrying out only what tasks they needed to do to survive. A sure change." Jorsek commented. He wondered just what caused them to close their doors, shut themselves apart from their good work and blocking away the pilgrims who worship there. Discouraged, he thought to himself. From the careful way Niobe talked about it, he had a fair picture of what kind of punishment it was. He had taken a few strikes from a belt over the years, but he paled to think just what kind of punishment something serious warranted, as opposed to the trivial question asked.

Another scrap of wood into the fire. The remains of what used to be a chair were nearly entirely in the fire by this point, through it was difficult to tell where the broken chair ended and the shattered table began. They would need to move soon, most likely. With walls destroyed and supplies ransacked, it was doubtful they could survive on this peak, in this cold, for more than a night. They would need to move, and sometime before nightfall. Thankfully, the day was still young, the sun nearing its zenith, so they had time.

Jorsek let the silence drift between them for some time, sitting and listening to the crackle of the fireplace, the bed of orange coals accumulating at the bottom of the fire throwing off a heavy, smoldering heat. Finally, the farmer asked a question to the monk. "Just where are we headed, Niobe? We can't stay here forever."
 
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