He managed not to snort at the young’un quip. Unless she was remarkably good at hiding her true age, there was no way the woman was older than him. It was close enough to the names he called the Shrikes to be misconstrued as a term of endearment, so he didn’t remark on it.

“That’s a good question,” he returned, heading for the fireplace. The base had once been a dwarven stronghold. The fireplace was huge, and lined with different cooking utensils, things for grilling and baking, frying and boiling alike. The canteen, most of the time, was a free-for-all. You left whatever you could scrounge in the ice boxes and cupboards that lined the cavernous rooms, and you cooked for whatever group you happened to be in at the time. It was madness maddened in the evenings, when everyone was back and wanting the place at the same time.

The early hours meant all that was there was a basket of yesterday’s bread and a bubbling cauldron of the ever-present stew. People just kept adding things every time a patrol or raid managed to come back with food that they weren’t sure would keep. In the weeks he’d been here, he’d seen it shift from beef to ham to potato to clam, and sometimes an unholy mixture of the aforementioned. Today it looked like something poultry-based and faintly green...

We should probably dump that and start over.

He ducked to pull a side of bacon and a couple of eggs out of the ice cupboard instead, using the knife to carve off a few slices. “It's over differences in ideas, mostly.” He watched his fingers as he cut. “The Church hasn't seen eye to eye with most of the people for a long time. They have one set of rules, and most of the people want to live by another. They started as good rules on both sides, mind, don't kill your neighbor, don't sleep with her husband, don't steal their cow...”

He left the bacon where it was, searching down the line of counters for a pan that at least looked clean, still talking. “But some of the people, see, they've got a list of other rules. Leave plates of milk out for the Fae folk or they'll steal your children, don't look at the Northlights too hard, they'll come down and steal your soul..." He finally found a pan that only had a slight film of bacon grease, sighed, and headed for the sink. "Silly, stupid little things like that, things that never hurt anyone, but weren't recorded in The Liand and, therefore, must be burned out."

This all felt so petty, explaining it like this. But petty things had always had a habit of turning into matters of life and death. Especially where religion and faith came into play. He let the pan drip dry as he continued.

“And then the king’s gone and vanished, and…things disintegrated from there. The monarchy’s all but gone, the church is taking over things left and right, and a lot of people died in the changeover. Everyone was so worried about fighting and the different forces managed to requisition most of the food from just about damn near everywhere that a lot of people didn’t even survive the winter.”

He smacked the frying pan into the fire harder than he meant to at the thought. His family had been one of the lucky ones. His brother Ludvik had seen much of this coming, had sent them out of the country before things went to hell.

“Now? Now most of us just want the fighting over with so we can at least start to rebuild something. Next planting season’s supposed to start in less than a month. If it’s not over by then, see, nothing’ll get planted, and it all starts over again.” He dumped the bacon into the pan and leaned against the counter, arms crossed.

“It’s stupid, it’s overly complicated, and I hate it to hell and back, to tell you the truth.” He smiled tightly at the young woman. “And, to top it all off, I’ve been a horrible host and missed your name. I’m Cael. You are…?”