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Jorah had always been a fan of the sun, but he’d be the first to admit he far preferred the haze of afternoon and the gentle glow of evening to the stabbing glare of dawn. Unfortunately, he hadn’t yet learned how to sleep through the toll of the early church bells, and even when he pretended to be asleep, sick, or dead in his bed, Clarissa’s impatient door-banging always forced him to his feet far earlier than was decent or humane. Goddess’ mercy, it was like every Roundtable session they spent together in Derdriu; those dastard red curls got to bouncing through the halls of Riegan Manor before the birds were even awake, and she was always dragging him out of bed to join her, decency be damned. Jorah figured the only thing stopping her this time was the fact she was probably less willing to pick locks when they belonged to the Church. 

So here he was, still squinting in the post-dawn light, albeit the walls of the arena mercifully kept the full force of the sun at bay. There was no roof, though, and it was early enough that the air in the uncovered arena was still cold from the morning chill, his breath fogging a bit in front of his face as he watched Euphemia try and fail not to fall asleep in front of the similarly drowsy Rose Unit. At least they had that much in common; were he not standing, Jorah would have been tempted to do the same. Not bothering to stifle his yawn, he stretched backwards, yawn turning into a groan as the muscles in his legs and lower back complained. Wow, somehow scarcely a week at Garreg Mach and he was already losing his riding muscles? He could have ridden twice the distance back home as he did last night and never felt a thing! No, no, it couldn’t be him. The Monastery apparently had shitty saddles. Where was all that donation money going, then?

Well, at least the ride had helped his spirits, if not his legs. It definitely helped that the prevailing attitude of the Rose Unit had turned from trauma to fatigue and general early-morning grumbliness, but airing his concerns to Clarissa had definitely helped him get a weight off his chest. As it always did, if he was honest. Couldn’t tell [i]her[/i] that, of course; she’d be much too proud of her counseling skills and he couldn’t have that. And besides, it wasn’t like she did all the work; he could think of more than a few times he’d had to coax her out of her room or some forest glen somewhere with some gentle words and friendly reminders that the world has to keep on turning. 

Oh, shoot. The professors were talking. Or, apparently, had just finished talking; Jorah missed just about all of it, but the skinny counselor was setting up targets and people were collecting weapons, so he figured he pretty much got the gist. Not having thought to bring his bow, he grabbed one of the steel training bows—the same ones they’d taken to Luin—and got a decent surprise when he crossed paths with the small Lion boy collecting a bow of his own. Hadn’t he been a swordsman at Luin? Kevin was gone before Jorah thought to ask, though he did level the boy with a not-at-all hidden look of confusion before shrugging his shoulders and sauntering back to claim a target. 

The others began their little drills in short order—with what energy at this hour, Jorah had no idea—though before the mages did their thing, a glimmer down by the melee dummies caught Jorah’s attention. Not one to let a chance to procrastinate go by, he stepped back from the firing line, hands on his hips to observe what turned out to be the Eagle prince’s demonstration. By the end of it, though, Jorah simply rolled his eyes. He couldn’t fairly condemn the showmanship, but seriously, who had the energy for it this early? There was a time and a place for flourish, and a crack-of-dawn training exercise was more irritating than anything. Not to mention the clumsy execution. He supposed the benefit of an imaginary opponent was that they were both greatly skilled and easily defeated—and of course, Jorah hadn’t forgotten how Prince Hresvelg’s “confidence” had very nearly gotten two of his housemates killed just the other day. 

Besides, that little salute was just corny. 

Rolling his shoulders, Jorah stepped back into place, setting his sights back on his target. Like he’d noted, it was way too early for showboating; instead, he simply shot three arrows, forming a neat vertical line from the top of the target to the bullseye. Shots to the forehead, throat, and heart, he could say. Job done, he took it as permission to rest, crouching down on the balls of his feet so as not to get his pants full of damp arena sand. 

[color=FFAB66]“Maybe next we’ll shoot apples off heads, eh?”[/color] he said to no one in particular, though he did turn once again to watch the recently-converted-to-archer Lion. His stomach complained loudly; was everyone hungry, or did these madmen get up even earlier to eat beforehand? Jorah leaned his elbows on his knees, feeling fatigue wash over him once again. Lunatics, the lot of them. It was much more natural to stay up till dawn than to rise before it. 

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