Elephantom
Chicken Broth Paragon
FRANE
Water clashed against water, rumbling as it spanned the height of the cavern, rushing into the glassy surfaces. The chatter of the water weaved in with that of the local flora and fauna. The rustle of leaves, and the afternoon piping of avians, with the hoarse calls of distant animals. The noon zephyr drifted in and out, emitting a dry noise as it howled through the cave's mouth; a crescendo one time, a diminuendo the other. It influenced, alongside the queer quiet of the hollow precipice, the trees that came close. By all means, it was a sanctuary, this cave, tranquil and the least touched by mankind. Yet, in this place which demanded more rest than attention, a sound belted out within the distance. It had stricken from the background, perhaps somewhere both far and near. Though the waterfall outweighed it greatly, it had yet to cease. As time passed, strangely by the twos and paces, the noise increased. It flit in and out of life, but it was continuous. Determinate. And soon, it surpassed the waterfall, becoming nigh jarring with its adamancy. The paces clung to the air with surety.
The man, who had up till now rested, shuffled awake, bones aching from his prolonged case of sitting. He looked around, his eyes adjusting. Darkness. Light came, though late, but it came. He set out his ears to hear better. Hasty footfall, he could recognize. He edged forward, numb knees throbbing. He paid little heed to the pain. Curiosity became more a priority than the care of his body, or his mind.
“Brother Frane, Frane!” the voice — it was a voice indeed, yet the man appeared unfazed by it — became thicker as the source of his disturbance approached. It was a thin voice, yet to be leavened by the effects of age, and still spry with youth. Frane, half-lidded, tensed up. The person, now at the foot of the cave's entrance, stopped in his tracks. The clatter of sandals against the rock floor ceased. The person was likely a monk, for their silhouette implied that they wore a baggy robe. Monks were nigh unfashionable these days, except for the higher clerics and priests, and had little to do except be wary and pious all the time — of course, you don't need much clothing to do just that.
Though many still wore baggy robes, there wasn't any logic in traversing a rough terrain with one — with the sole exception being said monks. Besides, the place closest to the Zowm forests, whose heart bore this cave, was Hardwym's monastery. It was normal for a monk to venture into the forests seeking for herbs.
Frane lifted his head, prying open his heavy eyes, and squinted at the figure. It was a monk all right: Rotund, with a salmon-pink face and nondescript features, topped off with the ridiculous haircut most monks wore — by fortune, Frane was wholly bald. The front of the monk's neck, melding with the chin, was covered with two folds of fat. The eyes were grey, and the lips tight.
“Frane, Frane,” The figure's voice lessened. The man was obviously tired, supporting his body with a hand on the wall, covered by the sleeves of his robe. There was only one man in the monastery who had sleeves longer than normal.
“Ven? Is it you, brother Ven?” Frane said. He looked like Ven, for sure. Ven was a monk fresh out of university and assigned to this monastery just recently. Frane grimaced at his mistake. How had he not recognized the voice, the distinct Meorosian accent, earlier? The half-sleep he had been in, from which he was broken out off, must have dulled his senses, he supposed.
“Frane,” Ven sputtered out, between his ceaseless panting. Hardly wasting a single moment, the boy hunched, hands flying from the wall and onto his knees. The boy's breathing came hoarse, and by the wan light that filtered through the mouth of the cave and the cavity above that let in the water, Frane could see the sweat that riddled the neophyte's forehead. He was truly tired. “Raiders. They attack us. We must flee.”
Frane sat still. His heart skipped a bit. How? Why? Of all places, why a monastery? Barely, had alms ever covered their needs, and riches were beyond their imagination — the only thing of any value being a few relics of the olden days, otherwise useless, and an entire library of books. Frane shook his head. He himself had worked on a lot of books, copying and penning, over the decade he had stayed in this quaint monastery. Frane accustomed to death, true, but he couldn't help but feel a pang of sorrow at the loss of his work. The raiders were likely going to burn the place down. He paled at the thought of that, though regained his composition with haste.
“Where are the others?” Frane said as he stood up. Ven straightened up, shoulders sagging and eyes drooping with despondency.
“I know scarce, brother, but they were last in the outskirts of the Zowm, where I had left them in search of you,” Ven paused, breathing deeply. His expression was hollow, more doubtful than optimistic. “I assume they won't stay long, for I fear the raiders have scattered them.”
“Perhaps,” Frane mumbled, frowning thoughtfully, before composing his back, and the joints of his creaking limbs. He widened his eyes for a moment, adjusting them to the dull light. How long had he been sitting, brooding in this darkness? For a moment far too long, and for my own good, it seems.
Ven continued. “They were a fearsome lot, brother. Eager for blood-”
Frane winced. “A bit too eager, I suppose?”
Ven nodded grimly, the contours of his lips set even tightly, distorting to a thin line. “What are we to do now, brother Frane?”
1. “The tide moves, brother. Let us vacate.”
2. “As God wills it, we shalt do what's right. We must search for the rest of our brothers.”
3. “God rewards bravery, and condemns cowardice. We must set forth and confront those savages.”
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