Alar did not recognize the temple as his horse crested the hill. The once grand, sprawling building that stood in front of half of the west wall was now crumbling, pillaged. He knew that it had been, that blood had been spilt and desecrated it, that the gold and marble embossing had been ripped from the walls. All treasures, beyond what the priests could physically carry out in their escape, that been taken and very little recovered. He reined his horse in and made a sign of sorrow with his fingers, like his mother had taught him.

The building was slowly being dismantled and used to rebuild, a smaller, temporary temple set up amid a crowd of tents to the east of the kingdom. His gaze swept over the once familiar landscape. The tree line was stripped back from the palace walls, a weak attempt to stop the tribes from alighting the entire place. Docks were charred ruins and people were loading and unloading from the rocky shore while they were rebuilt. The north wall, facing the mountain, was completely gone, leaving the once noble streets open to attack. As they had been.

He kicked Steele into a gallop and hurried down the hill toward the gates, left open because who would pillage a kingdom that looked like this?

Alar Coldpelt was a commander, his family stretching back to when their surname actually denoted a trade. He had been one of the young men chosen to fight from the working class, though by the end of the war most of them were forced into the ranks out of desperation. Unlike them, Alar had made his fortune at war, and was now returning to claim what was his.

He sped through the streets to the richer part of town. Once cobbled and manicured, only a few houses remained, likely the traitors that paid the tribes to spare them. He knew their fates had been at their own servants' hands. The rest were husks, an occasional wall left blackened and leaning. He went to the end of the street and stared up in disbelief at the once great manor of the Waterhell family. He traced the old doorway and slid from his horse. Murmuring a prayer, he hastened forward.

Seeing someone rooting through the damage he shouted; "You! What happened to the family? The child?" Better cut straight to the point. He could give less of a damn about the family. Only you. Only the one who cried when he'd left.

The man straightened and shrugged. "All nobles not dead are in the palace. And good riddance to them, useless lot." He was a soldier too by the looks of his faded leather tunic and Alar paid him his dues with a salute before hurrying and mounting Steele and galloping toward palace gates.

The makeshift hospital and new seat of government was a chaotic mix of the dying and nobles clamoring for attention and respect and there, amid the injured, he spotted you. You held a scroll of names that you were desperately scanning and wore a white coverall over a torn and ash covered dress. Blood had splattered your front and your hair was loose and tangled. He felt an overwhelming relief as he tied his horse up and hurried to you.