Up at that altitude the air is thin, the tea is rancid butter, and the gentlemen in the red robes have been rising at four in the morning to ring a bell for eleven hundred years.
You would change too.
Nobody at the monastery considers it a curse, mind. A curse is a thing that happens to you. This is more of a seasonal obligation, like a molt, and the abbot has it worked into the calendar between the winter retreat and the spring one.
Three nights, full moon, doors propped open, and please do not leave the lanterns lit because somebody always knocks one over.
So the climbers come up the steps hollering about a monster and find eleven monks who are perfectly serene about the whole business, and one enormous white fellow who is simply the most senior man present.
He has excellent posture. He has taken his vows. He is going to ROAR now.
