[center][color=ed1c24][h1]I Put A Spell On You[/h1][/color] [i]Days ago.[/i][/center] [color=ed1c24][right][url=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XivELBdxVRM][i]"Summertime... And the livin' is easy... Fish are jumpin'... And the cotton is high..."[/i][/url][/right][/color] Six fucking stars and the smell of bacon. It was the kind of combination first thing in the morning that made Solomon Speer check to see if he'd died and gone to Pepe, and over the years somehow its allure had never waned for him. It was like a great reaction image. You just felt it deep in the ol' loins. But as much as he'd love to sate some of the base needs all men grappled with first thing in the morning - [color=00a651][i]if I reach the console now, I can shekel a few kids before they go to school for the day; wait fuark did I have any paperwork to do from last job?; aaaaaaaaaargh I gotta start pissing before I go to bed STAND CLEAAAAAAR[/i][/color] - there was something he had to do. It was six in the morning (he had to thank the boss for this based alarm clock sometime) and though he couldn't remember what day it was off-hand, he knew that it had to end with 'day.' And on a day that ended in 'day,' there was only one person who was up at six in the morning, cooking, and singing songs that would have made his grandma weak in the knees. [color=00a651][i]D-Daddy's here~[/i][/color] After trudging to the bathroom and postponing the local nor'easter season for another few precious weeks, Speer shambled out into the adjoined kitchenette and dining room of the flat shared by his group. As he suspected, there was already a young man staffing the kitchen, back turned to the hallway Solomon had emerged from. Solomon slipped onto one of the stools and plopped his elbows down on the counter without grace, hands cupping his strong jaw and scraping black stubble. At least he could grow stubble. The grouchy, beautiful idiot before him probably thought something as manly as a weekend beard was a grooming touch to be scowled into submission, not admired. Long, lean, and amber-skinned, the chef [i]did[/i] look disarmingly groomed for the dawn hour - suspicious, considering the slept-in appearance of the black jeans that clung to his legs. Long, thick chestnut hair that should have been splayed wildly was pulled back was instead pulled down the nape of his neck, where it trailed off into blood red tips that fell along his left shoulder. His voice, smoky and deep the way that the singer on the Scroll's was smoky and deep, was so sharp it hurt Solomon's delicate slacker eyes. His squadmate sounded like he had been alert for hours, and his motions as he cooked looked as effortless as a duelist's. The young man was nimbly switching between four different meals - one that apparently required a wide variety of mixed berries and pears, some bacon in the pan, some eggs currently being steamed underneath a closed lid, and what smelled like biscuits in the oven. Solomon's eyes drifted to the cook's left arm - first to the gauze wrapped tight around the bottom half of his upper arm, and then down to the long, ornate black glove that started at the elbow, where the gauze stopped, and ran all the way down to the fingertips. Or, it would have. Had the chef not been wearing an oven mitt over the palm of the glove. [color=ed1c24][right][i]"One of these mornings, you're gonna rise up singing... You're gonna spread your wings and you'll take to the sky... But 'til that morning, there's a'nothin' can harm ya... With Daddy and Mommy, Mommy standing by..."[/i][/right][/color] Jericho Piper. All the members of Team HJNS were members of Atlas Academy's elite Gold Stripes courses, but it was Jericho who embodied the Atlesian ideal of excellence best - a crack shot with a pistol and rifle, a skilled hand to hand combatant, and masterful actor, all traits expected of those who graduated from the country's elite Bastion Academy combat school. He was also demanding, aloof, and had social skills that were donkey kicked in the head somewhere around age seven. Teachers described him as underachieving - dynamic-minded with a will to learn, yet unable or unwilling to raise his hand in class and call out answers until threat of discipline. His real friends could be counted on one amputated hand. And the blind dates he had been forced into by his teammates often led to legendary outcomes. Speer loved to tell the one about how he had both helped the lovelorn niece of their Armory instructor work up the courage to go on a blind date with Jer and managed to talk his teammate into attending the date. Jericho took the agreement to heart and showed up at the restaurant disguised as the busboy, who, of course, had no idea what could possibly have rendered the poor girl's dinner date a no-show. He kept the ruse up for an hour - and promptly dropped Armory the following weekend. [color=00a651][i]That's our Jer.[/i][/color] Solomon sighed theatrically to get his teammate's attention. Jericho didn't flinch, though whether that was because he was too deep in culinary reverie or had already heard his teammate approach was up to the reader's interpretation. [color=00a651]"Maybe if more women were like you when I woke up, I would go on more dates."[/color] [color=ed1c24]"I'm sure that's all that's stopping you,"[/color] came the curt reply. [color=ed1c24]"What is it, Speer? I'm cooking."[/color] [color=00a651]"I see that. Whassa matter, Jer? I'm only wishing you good morning. It's what human beings say to each other every day when we want them to have, y'know. Good mornings."[/color] [color=ed1c24]"Sounds exhausting,"[/color] Piper deadpanned. [color=ed1c24][color=ed1c24]"There is a tray on the coffee table in front of the console. Summer sausage, cheese and crackers. Meanwhile I am preparing bacon, eggs, buttered biscuits, and fruit salad. This will prove to be a scrumptious and nutritious breakfast, which is the primary building block for any good morning. And I didn't wish for a thing. You're welcome."[/color][/color] [color=fff200]"Aaaah, do I smell bacon? It seems our fair Jericho is once again proving his worth at the rang--AAAARGH!"[/color] The sound of two dull thuds rang out from along a hallway, followed by a muffled curse and an order: [color=fff200]"Briiiiight! His Grace demands a royal retainer at once..."[/color] Jericho's shoulders rose and fell once in a soft sigh, and Solomon looked from the sound of the noises to the chef quizzically. [color=00a651]"So what's the deal with Rich?"[/color] Speer asked, jerking a thumb over his shoulder towards the ruckus. [color=00a651]"He didn't sound all Bobby Baratheon when we graduated from Bastion..."[/color] [color=ed1c24]"Our noble leader,"[/color] Jericho said with a trace of irony, [color=ed1c24]"went on a job with me this summer to Medieval Times. My sister put the idiot idea in his head that he would be a great King of Atlas one day. It looks like he took it to heart. He's been calling me serving wench and riding around that idiot recliner like a throne since we got back. So I thought I would remind Rich of his own mortality a little. I've been loosening a floorboard in his part of the loft once every couple of days. It seems like he finally noticed."[/color] ... [i][color=00a651]"M y s i d e s,"[/color][/i] Solomon Speer wheezed in an awed whisper, trying to keep in his guffaws. [color=00a651]"Who else knows?"[/color] [color=ed1c24]"Only the people in this kitchen. So many rulers have fallen victim to paranoia that I saw no need to burden [i]His Grace[/i] with rumors of treason in the court."[/color] Jericho turned to face his teammate for the first time. His face was as bronzed and still as a death mask, but there was a rare crinkle of amusement around one golden eye. [color=ed1c24]"Now quit cackling and take an egg or two. I'll grab the biscuits."[/color] [color=0072bc]"Morning, Jer. Sup, Speer."[/color] The final member of HJNS, Noah Bright, sat down at the counter beside Solomon and slid a piece of paper onto the counter between them. [color=0072bc]"Rich is gonna be in the bathroom getting an ice pack ready. He says this is for you, Jer. It's a [i]royal decree,[/i] he says."[/color] The blue-haired Hunter in training rolled his eyes, almost as though he'd heard the conspiratorial mutterings about his team leader's royalty fetish. [color=00a651]"Wait, is that my math homewo--"[/color] [color=ed1c24]"It's blank aside from Rich's writing, so yes. Probably."[/color] The paper fluttered up into the air as Jericho snatched it up, tray of biscuits still in his left hand. The young Atlesian held the tray out of Solomon's reach as the shitposter violently tried to snatch at it, eyes reading the first line on the paper a few times without emotion. [color=ed1c24]"A solo mission?" [/color] He looked up; Solomon looked nonplussed and Bright just looked bored. [color=ed1c24]"We've never been on a solo mission,"[/color] Jericho continued. [color=ed1c24]"None of us."[/color] Neither teammate had a reply for him, so Jericho shrugged and dropped the paper onto the counter again. [color=ed1c24]"I'll get breakfast finished and then go see the General for further instructions, then,"[/color] he said idly, setting down the tray of biscuits and watching his two teammates divide half of them between themselves in no time flat. [color=ed1c24]"Make sure our instructors know that I'm headed out for a week or two. Save a copy of all worksheets for me and they'll be completed when I return."[/color] [color=00a651]"Sure thing, buddy,"[/color] Solomon said, mouth full of food and a thumbs up raised as compliments to the chef. [color=00a651]"We'll get [i]right[/i] on that."[/color] [color=0072bc]"We'll be sure to pack you a can of oil so you don't freeze up around people without us, too,"[/color] Bright added lazily. [color=0072bc]"And some swim trunks."[/color] Jericho, busy withdrawing his oven mitt from his left hand and staring at the ebony glove it was wrapped in, looked up sharply. Solomon's gaze, still marred by a biscuit hanging from the mouth, drifted to Noah, then the the paper. He pulled the degree over hastily and read. [color=ed1c24]"What do you mean, swim trunks?" [/color] No one was in much of a hurry to answer Jericho. Bright's dry smile was unreadable. Solomon Speer was reading over the paper as though it was a message from God on high. His bright blue eyes had grown as round and wide as saucers, and giggles were squeaking from the back of his throat. [color=00a651]"They're sending [i]you? [b]Here?[/b][/i]"[/color] the shitposter asked with glee. [color=00a651]"You're [i]fucked![/i]"[/color] [color=0072bc]"So fucked,"[/color] Noah Bright said nonchalantly. [color=0072bc]"Enjoy yourself for us, Jer. Hope it doesn't kill you."[/color] Clearly impatient, Jericho snatched the paper away from the helplessly-sniggering Speer and read it again. This time, his eyes reached all the way down to the bottom of the page. ... The Atlesian super-spy paled faintly. [hr] [@Write] [@HereComesTheSnow] [@Silvan Haven] [@Crimmy] [color=007236]"You. Schwarz."[/color] The voice came from a tanned Mistralian girl, wearing tattered black skinny jeans that revealed two enormous pistol tattoos on her hips and thighs and sporting an accent closer to Bianca's than Gratia's. She approached the group with brisk, purposeful strides, seemingly apathetic towards the sentimental moment she was interrupting. She seemed to recognize the majority of the people there, however; cool hazel eyes roamed over the different members of Team Vignoble, past and present, and seemingly stopped somewhere over Gratia's shoulder - as if she was tracing the outline of a person that should be there and was conspicuously absent. A full mouth tightened in faint displeasure before Vivianne Laurent returned to her errand. She withdrew a slim white envelope from her waistband before extending it out to the Hunter, as if expecting himself to wrench free from the pile of embraces he was wrapped in to grab it from her. [color=007236]"This is for you. Courtesy of Team Vivacious."[/color]