[h3][center]Edmund McCormac[/center][/h3]

[hr]

Edmund felt like he was going to explode. 

Not literally, of course. He hadn't been literally about to explode since the time that grenade (miraculously, a dud) landed in his lap, back in his mercenary days. No, Edmund was just restless. That, in it of itself, was hardly a rare occurrence. If Edmund were to tell a friend that he was feeling restless, the likely answer would be 'again, or still?'. He felt cooped up under normal circumstances, but knowing that the open road was just a little while away made every second until their departure all the more excruciating.  

He'd woken up early. Or, more correctly, he'd stayed up late, took a forty minute nap, and woke up before dawn. With nothing better to do, he'd gone to the Guard's training grounds and sparred. He'd been using a training sword from the practice rack, since he didn't want to waste energy conjuring for partner-less training. He'd stayed out of the way, trying to conceal himself. If Jitka made her way to the sparring grounds, he'd have to spar her. She'd won their lat match, and he didn't want to fight her again until he was sure of his victory. A younger him may have called that cowardly, but he just called it practical. 

So, he whacked away at a dummy with the practice sword. When he got bored, he took some practice shots with his revolver, much to the dismay of anyone unlucky enough to have a room near the training grounds. He became engrossed in his training finding relief from the restlessness. He became so engrossed that he lost track of time. The sun had risen, and he was late. 

"Shit." He said to himself. "Glad I don't work a nine-to-five." He haphazardly stowed the practice blade, gathered his gear, and made haste for his room. Realistically speaking, all he had to do was grab his satchel, and he'd be ready to go, but he'd take a shower first. Say one thing for Edmund McCormac, say he likes to smell nice. So, he took a shower at record speed, and blow-dried his hair. He'd take the hairdryer on campaigns, when he was still a Captain, and his troops would often make fun of him for it. He got used to the insults, but he hoped that the troops never got used to him having fantastic-looking hair.

When Edmund decided he was presentable, he sprinted as fast as he could to the lobby. He stopped to catch his breath, and looked around. The others weren't here yet, maybe he wasn't late aft-

[i]Oh.[/i]

Edmund sighed, and sat down next to Sigurd. He glanced at the bag in the servant's hands. He craned his neck to peek inside, hand poised to snatch some of the food, but he sat back down, defeated, when he realized it was caramel brittle. He hated caramel. He sat back, thinking. 

"Yo, Sig." Edmund said, lightly poking him with his elbow. "Are you as excited as I am for this trip?" Edmund smiled, in spite of himself. He could not wait to be rid of the capital for a while. He liked the city skyline, but any picture got old if you stared at it every day. "Because, I, my friend, am elated." 

[@Rice Porridge]