It was a strange kind of freedom that he felt now as he marched forever forward with his fellow conscripts. The freedom from choice; the freedom from responsibility where their only duty was to fight and die at the hands of the winged beasts, and so it was that Jorran prepared himself for this fate. The only thing that remained truly his were his memories. They had become his escape from the vastly unchanging terrain of the mountains.<br/><br/>A distant memory of Morgan, his sister as well as his best friend, kept him far from being swallowed by the exhaustion that had taken more than a few of his brothers-in-arms. The fear of forgetting her face was still ever-present as it had been since the day he was taken over a year ago. He made it something of a ritual to remember the moments he held most dear so that she would never be erased. It stung enough to know that he had forgotten his brother's face in the years since his death and he did not wish to compound the feeling.<br/><br/>He was taken from his reminiscing by the shouts that went up around him. Mages and soldiers alike rejoiced with their leader's speech, but Jorran was not alone in seeing them for what they were; just another hollow eulogy. "We're a storm to bring and end to their fire!" They shouted, as if their words could bring down the draconic menace alone. It was the soldier to his right that encapsulated Jorran's thoughts with nothing but a whisper.<br/><br/>"We're just the next storm fool enough to try…" He said. There was no fear in his voice, just the quiet acceptance of a man on his death bed. "A little rain can't quench the fires of hell."<br/><br/>Though he didn't respond, Jorran knew he spoke truth and, in his heart, he had already begun mourning for their inevitable doom. He struggled to remember why he needed to stay alive, why he needed to be victorious, but hope was a fleeting thing. Despair was far stronger than its brighter counterpart. He brought his beloved sister to the surface of his thoughts. It drove the despair back some, but it was still there. It still lingered in the recesses of his mind.<br/><br/>They made camp and Jorran chose to sleep beneath the barren branches of a long dead tree. All was quiet as he sat, back against the graying trunk, watching the world around him. Most were sleeping while others still huddled around campfires waiting for their own fits of exhaustion to take hold. Others of his company wandered off to find some kind of private solace. He wondered if they would return from their sojourn into the surrounding mountains. One woman in particular, he had come to know her as Centienne, sat up from whatever sleep she had managed to find. Jorran watched through drooping eyelids as she scanned the area. For a long moment she gazed into the distance and he could see the same thought that crossed the minds of every soldier on this march; to stay, Or to run. Was it bravery to stay and die in this war? Or was it bravery to run and live as long as one could with their families? No answer came to him as his eyes closed, delivering him to a dreamless, restless sleep that had become to familiar in the recent months.