Joan woke from a night of fitful sleep, her nerves for the final tiered bracket to become Champion of the Hall. This will be her third defence of the title, but this time it will be her fellow Watch who will not be there to cheer her on. Maybe the Commander will visit. Joan wondered.

Slipping out of bed, Joan wraps herself in her peach-coloured robe, the material soft on her bare skin. The scent of flowers perinate her abode, thinking Maybe I have some time for gardening to calm myself.

Heading out of her bedroom into her gym, she dropped her robe then Stillwater went to her weapon rack. She hefted up the exercise sword, which WayWocket alchemically treated to be denser. Then, with a quick swing, she moved to wide mensur; under hew, she shifted to middle mensur and flowed from one stance to an attack back to stance. For fifteen minutes, she swung her sword, losing herself to distract from the fights but to no avail.

But Joan knew that was foolish, and the first match would be in only in two hours. Her bracket was the second match, but she didn’t know this new contender.

According to the finalist list, Gregor, an agent for the Magi College and new to this area, the only thing Stillwater wonders is that how skilled Gregor was to won his all ten qualifying bouts. Lone only succeeded in eight of his, with Dirk and Kerri of the Helpers completed seven of the ten. Joan is looking forward to crossing swords with this man to see where her skill is fair.

Grabbing a towel to wipe off the sweat, she allowed the coolish air of mid-Peace. Only four weeks ago, snow was piled high on her eight-foot fence. It took her and Gunnar a while to make sure the snow didn’t rot her fence. Grabbing her robe, she wrapped it around her before her muscles cramped up.

With her first training session done, Stillwater moved into the kitchen, grabbing a pot to start cooking some porridge and another pan of apples to stew. Humming to herself as a little ditty popped into her head, which sparked a thought of the Rejects celebrating another completed job. It moved from the celebration to dancing with Lone. She might be nearly a head taller than him, but his cocky smile and stupid comments make her flush a little.

Before Stillwater got too carry away with silly thoughts, the water came to the boil, and like clockwork, WayWocket waded into the kitchen, “Tis be good to see you on this day, Pure Soul.” He then sipped at a vial in his hand. “I can see some blurriness in the path, as the magiks call for my part.”

Stillwater shook her head again at Way, his prophetic speech can be a little, but it was always welcome, if only if you can dig into the meanings.

“Morning Way, what vial are you on now?” As Joan turned, she continued to chop the apple and add it to the sugar water.

“Path changes, and order moves. Black was needed for clarity first, and then Amber, Silver for balance the Black, Pink will follow, and Gold mixed with Blue.” WayWocket spread out five vials, with only three still fill with viscous liquid.

Even if Joan didn’t know how the order change meant, she nodded at WayWocket and continued with breakfast. She knows if she didn’t make this food for Way, he would forget and waste it away. It has been years since that happened, one reason why he lives with her.

“Will you be heading to the Hall today?” Stillwater called over her shoulder.

Picking up the pink coloured vial, WayWocket realised that Joan was talking to him. Way hated the side effects of the initial taking of his morning ritual potions. His mind moves into past, present and future fractals, “Um Joan, sorry. I was some….” Another scene flashed into his mind, a man with a sword wreathed in lighting standing over S… he then mumbles, “Blade will be a wall between Bloodied and Dawn from the Leech.”

Stillwater turned suddenly, picking up Way’s speech pattern, the unfocused and guttural tone when he sees a future possibility. “Way, are you alright? And what did you say?”

“Um, nothing. Just heading to the Lab. I have a new potion to brew, or was it… Blade will… maybe need to perfect the−a new alloy for your…. Leech will want the Blo….”

With that, WayWocket trailed off; Stillwater looked over him, worried. I know Bloodied is Pela, Dawn is Lone, which is stupid like mine, Pure Soul. But who are Blade and Leech?

Turning back, Joan grabbed two ceramic bowls and two spoons made from Way’s new metal alloy: Merrin Silver. Three scoops for Way and one for her, with a good portion of the stewed apples on top. It always felt strange giving the three-foot gnome more than her ample size of six foot four inches, but she’ll eat over the day while this would be his only meal.

“There you go, Way and eat all of it.” Placing it in front of him, Joan could see the grimace of having to eat. “I want it scraped clean, Way or you will not be going to the lab.”

With a slow movement of his head, WayWocket’s irritation to eating and the threat was evident. “Fine.”

I pushed him enough for today. I wonder if Lone is up yet? Stillwater pondered.

***

Across the city of Lake Merrin, the adventurer known as Lone Solo was still in bed. He had a little nip of Electora, that potato spirit from the Northern Electorate. He barely had to shots before overcoming drunkenness, his tolerance had diminished over the last three months of lack of drink, but if he doesn’t drink, he is unindicted with horrific nightmares.

Out in the central area, Pela bright and chipper was making herself some breakfast. Since her change into the flamed haired Incarnate, she consumed more starchy products, so her plate was filled with potato patties with bacon and bread. On the side was a bowl of porridge with a dash of honey. Even after having five heavy meals a day, her figure had not changed. Over the last three months, the only thing she noticed was that her powers were dismissed if she didn’t consume this much food.

Should I wake up the lazy one? Pela mused. With a huff, she stood up from her breakfast and banged on his door. Through the door, she heard his yelp of pain. Must have been drinking again, damn; my friend needs help.

With a thump, Lone groan and roll made him fall from his bed onto the floor. With a yell from his compromised position, “Why did you wake me, Pela?” I had the best blackout sleep, he added in his head.

“The tournament starts in two hours, and you don’t know your placement on the tier ladder,” Pela yelled over her shoulder as she moved back to her breakfast.

Grabbing a pair of pants, Lone struggled to put them on due to putting them on while laying on the floor. “Two hours?” he mumbled to himself, “I could have had another ninety minutes of sleep.” Raising his voice, “Fine, I am getting ready-ish.”

Ignoring that, Pela started to shovel the food into her gullet. The hunger pains started to kick in. WayWocket, during his training of her, suggested that her power is so dependent on the ‘calories’ or ‘carbohydrates’ she ate.

Back in the room, Lone realised that he couldn’t put his pants on the floor. Standing up from the floor, his foot slipped on his pants legs, and he gracelessly fell back onto the ground. Kicking off his pan, he stood and then put them back on.

Stretching bare-chested, Lone opened the door. The smell of Pela’s breakfast hit his nose, mouth moistened to the scent of food. “Any for me?”

Pela looked at Lone shirtless form with an arched eye, shoving the forkful of fritter into her mouth. “What am I? Your maid or cook? Make something yourself.”

“You’ve gotten meaner since becoming an adventurer.” Lone sulked.

Shaking her head, Pela ignored his comment. When he first moved in, she was grateful, as he paid the rent for one month, and she lacked a job. She was fired from Corbin’s because of Lone, but that is neither here nor there. Since she joined the Rejects, money has been good, and the whole ‘happy I’m not the street vibe’ from Solo’s help stop when he started to expect breakfast or dinner made for him. They were roommates and friends; he will never be her lover as she likes a man who isn’t as lazy or foolish as Lone. Still, he is an extraordinary half-breed guy.

“Fine then, we do have coffee. I have a little headache from the, um, fall?” Lone flopped into the chair across from Pela.

“Why are you not wearing a shirt?” Looking at his fit but the hairless chest, Pela like a bit of chest hair. It is more manly. “Do you shave your chest?” noting the red bumps on Lone’s chest.

Lone’s face flushed, and he stood up to head back into his bedroom. “Of course not. It is a reaction to training armour.”

In truth, it was not. Lone does shave his chest mainly because it is patchy-ugly like his facial hair. Slipping on a cleanish shirt, he deftly moved back to his chair. Even not training, he unconsciously falls into his footwork of the Western broadsword style. The conservation of movement, Kilroy called it.

“Better?” Lone asked Pela.

Looking up from her quickly diminishing food, “Much, I have trained with Way this morning. Hopefully, I will be at the Hall to cheer you and Joan on later.”

Pouring from the jug from the table’s heating stone, Lone filled a cup with black coffee. After a sip, he added in six cubes of sugar. “Do not worry, might not know the ladder, but if my first match is with Stillwater or that mysterious guy who won 10 of his ten qualifying matches, I would not even make it to the afternoon,” Lone said while stirring in his sugar.

“Well, I will just have to cheer on Joan then,” Pela stated.

“Hmm, I wonder if Brill is serving yet?” Lone pondered out loud.

For Mela’s sake, he is lazy! Pela thought.