[center][img]https://img.roleplayerguild.com/prod/users/cd6fc343-6dbd-4ce9-9493-e893103813a0.png[/img][/center][right][sub][@Achronum][/sub][/right] The time after the giant fell crawled slowly. Fueled by the adrenaline and indignation of battle, Jorah’s first instinct was to march over to Kayden and punch him in the jaw for his tomfoolery on the backlines; fortunately for both of them, Euphemia tore him away before he got the chance, leaving him fuming in the saddle of a horse, rounding up carriages. But too soon the anger faded, and in crept… no. It wasn’t as gentle as creeping. As soon as the last red haze of battle cleared away, it was like Jorah was thrown into an icy lake, submerged and drowning in the heart-rending grief and sorrow of a village destroyed. People crying out over burning homes, livelihoods ruined, and loved ones taken too soon, or worse, those who stayed like statues as they steeped in hopeless grief—so tightly did the icy fingers of abject sorrow grip his chest, it was a miracle Jorah could draw breath at all. The eventual trip back to Garreg Mach was no better. The desperate cries of upended souls might have been muffled in the shelter of a separate carriage, but they weren’t gone—and that was to say nothing of the somber mood inside the carriages themselves. Happening upon a gruesome garden of impaled bandits back at the caravan did nobody any good either, and for the first time, Jorah spent a carriage ride in silence. There were no songs, no off-colour jokes to lighten the mood, not even a hushed conversation with Clarissa; hells, in the hours they rocked and reeled back to the mountains, it was all he could do to keep his lips from quivering. He thought—and hoped—that things would get better when they got back. With the displaced villagers dispersed around the monastery instead of all clumped together, Jorah thought their grief would lose its volume, and he could find refuge in some distant corner of the Monastery (or better yet, a seat in an alehouse in the attached village), to cleanse their sadness from his mind. It was borrowed, after all; their plight was tragic, but [i]he’d[/i] lost nothing in the blaze—though not for Kayden’s lack of trying. But it was no use. Even in the midst of evening merriment at a nearby tavern, regaling war stories to a pretty girl on his knee, the drunken happiness of others couldn’t quite permeate his gloom. His mind was stuck in a deep, dark rut, and if drink and songs couldn’t get him out of it, he wasn’t sure what could. An after-class meeting was just as well; the sleepy auras of bored classmates were a better alternative to steeping in cold gloom somewhere else on Monastery grounds, and Jorah had little energy for troublemaking. But he wasn’t exactly the most attentive student. He vaguely heard Michail’s tepid admonishment of Kayden’s recklessness—and his baffling recognition of [i]him[/i] of all people—but it was far away. He didn’t even think to joke about the impending doom of the Alliance if Duke Riegan heard his son was being [i]leaderly[/i]. He barely heard Clarissa get the recognition she deserved. The thing that had his attention instead was the scab on his cheek, where that one bandit’s arrow had grazed him. That was what his thoughts always seemed to wander back to, and his fingers as well; whenever he caught himself brooding, he always found himself touching that mark, running his fingertips over the rough line that miraculously wasn’t a hole through his neck. Kaira had offered to finish healing it, and Clarissa after her, but he’d refused both times. “Ladies love battle scars” was his excuse but in truth, he wasn’t sure why he kept it. Maybe it would make good proof to his father that Jorah von Riegan wasn’t fit for leadership; maybe it was just a reminder that he escaped death by luck and the grace of the Goddess alone. Yeah, some leader. And now Michail had “high expectations” of him. What a joke. It was a miracle that whoever was dumb enough to put him in charge didn’t have Golden Deer blood on their hands. Jorah was bitter by the time the meeting drew to a close, shooting the new boy a harsher look than he meant—once he managed to [i]find[/i] the kid, anyway. Cethleann’s tits, this one looked even more a mess than Kevin. It would be a wonder if Kayden didn’t trample him underfoot by accident, boar that he was. Before Jorah’s mind could descend back into the spiteful depths he’d been swimming since Luin, Clarissa’s voice pulled him back to the surface, proposing an afternoon ride. He had to grin; just like Delia, Clarissa always seemed to know what he needed, even when he didn’t. A somber thought crossed his mind that he’d miss her when he was gone, but that was a conversation for later. [color=FFAB66]“Yeah, of course. That sounds good,”[/color] he agreed clumsily, feigning his usual, carefree self. Probably to no avail; Clarissa always saw right through him. [color=FFAB66]“I’ll swipe some dinner from the dining hall and meet you at the stables later.”[/color] [center][img]https://img.roleplayerguild.com/prod/users/8ee83226-1695-4044-ab2b-9ae88beef451.png[/img][/center]