Yorn had distant early memories of the long treck up the switchbacks on the side of the plateau. The exhausting early morning journey, with its grim determined pace. They made their way to the top and then collapsed in the fields. When Yorn awoke the next morning he thought that he had died. The light, his eyes could barely take it, and he could see for miles up here. So different from anything he had experienced down in the mist. He thought he would like it. And at first, he did. It was bright, and so peaceful. But that was just the problem. Now, to his young mind, this was the most boring place in the world. Early memories of the front lines of the Blood Wars were somehow tinged with a feeling almost akin to nostalgia. He didn't know which was better, dodging arrows or working in the fields all day cutting wheat with a blade duller than his old school teacher.

"Yorn, Yorn!" the voice rang out piercing the silence of the uncertain morning. "Awake boy, the fields await!" called the voice of Yorn's father who did not possess the strength to climb the rickety ladder that lead to Yorn's room. His room wasn't much. It was small and dirty. A few planks were missing from the floor but complaining would be futile. Little more could be done. All that was in the room was a bed of hay and a simple oaken chest that held all of Yorn's belongings. He wore its key around his neck at all times. It was a shiny golden key that did not seem to fit in style or in value to that of the chest. After a while the key became worth more than the chest and its belongings. It was given to him by his mother on the day of his ascension, shortly before her death.

-- Tales of Yorn