Rising up from his mat, Harlea felt the peace that came from Shavasana slip away again. The throbbing in his head returned as was the rest of his woes from his hangover. Neither fact mattered for his stretches given they were a non-negotiable habit for good reason. Every morning before sunrise, stretching ought to be done and there were very few exceptions where it wouldn’t make his life better. 

He rolled onto his knees and pushed himself up to stand in the middle of his living room. A sea of clutter surrounded him and his yoga mat, with very little of the floor space visible from where he stood.

Before he was doing anything, he was going to need some water. He began the careful shuffle along the small path that led to his kitchen but got caught up in a surprisingly big yawn. It was the sort of yawn that rocked his body and made him stretch all the way the top of his head to his toes. A yawn that his weary body deserved on such an auspicious day.

The feeling dropped away and Harlea cherished the brief rush of endorphins. With a small smirk to himself, he relished in the discombobulating experience of feeling giddy and queasy at the same time.

There was an amiable quiet that settled in the dawn light. The mess of his home looked beautiful in the golden hour and offered yet another reason why he wasn’t going to be spending his morning cleaning. 

On his first day off he’d had in a month, he was glad to file cleaning as too disruptive to his cottage’s ambiance. That and there was no way he was going to waste his precious day on cleaning, not unless he had some sudden and inexplicable desire to do so. 

Stepping between his couch and a linen sack full of his random unsorted loot, he felt confident that the desire to clean wasn’t going to happen any time soon. He grabbed a coffee mug from his coffee table and swirled the oily residue inside. 

His drunk self had managed to clear a path between his bedroom and kitchen the night before. It was serviceable and he’d only make the house messier after Coalpass. His kitchen was also messy, perhaps even messier from where he stood looking through the open door. He weaved through his piles of dirty laundry and an eclectic collection of random adventuring gear that sprawled out around his dining table. 

On the table, a little treat changed his path: a sandwich that he had made the night before. He’d managed a few bites before he collapsed on the couch but it had worked nicely for him. 

It sat on the back of a buckler on his table and Harlea instead unwrapped a grappling hook from around the buckler’s edge and fed the rope back into a manageable mess. The buckler had been a nice little pick up from a ruin a few weeks ago. Harlea couldn’t decide if he wanted to use it or sell it but he was glad it had made a plate for the night before. He placed the grappling hook next to his magnifying glass and his pitons. The grappling hook rolled and shifted several pitons closer to the table’s edge before Harlea caught the piton most in danger of falling. 

He pushed the pitons and grappling hook further into the table and placed the last piton into the space he’d made. Having a crack cleaning could be his afternoon task perhaps. Once he’d stopped by Nicolas’ forge, that was and he could just start with the table and the lounge so he could eat and get a proper nap.  Some of his day off had been planned. It was a necessary evil, with the nap and the trip to the forge being non-negotiables but everything else was going to be up to him and him alone. His nap would happen in the afternoon, and then he’d cook something for dinner before heading to bed for an early night to be ready for the next day. 

Ready for their next contract, which was going to be a pain in the ass. He’d accepted their first Wild Node contract since they’d returned to Ol’Haran and the idea of braving the Wilds again filled him with dread. He was confident they could handle it and even Fiona agreed it was a good idea. The money from the Wild Node was excellent and the windfall would come at the perfect time for a lot of them.

For Harlea, it was the push he needed to order his new axes. In a few hours, he’d wander down to see Nicolas with the money he needed and put his deposit down. It would be his only social obligation for the day but before then, he’d need a shirt and his coin pouch.

Making his way into the kitchen, Harlea switched his coffee mug for the full pitcher of drinking water on the kitchen counter. He took a swig out of water and made a loud sigh of relief as the water filled his stomach. Risking a bite of his sandwich, Harlea juggled the pitcher and sandwich into his left hand. 

His little nighttime snack was as good as he remembered to his surprise. The sandwich was a result of him stumbling home hungry after dinner and he’d used what he’d had in his pantry to make it. Inside the two pieces of stale bread was a bit of chicken liver and a couple small tomatoes.

Chewing through the bread still took a bit of work before he could swallow it down but the juices from the chicken and tomato had soaked into the bread to make the experience enjoyable. 

Next on his sink was the next item he needed for his perfect morning off. Stacked among his other clean dishes was a wooden cup he could use. When he was stretching, he’d figured out what he wanted to do first to celebrate his downtime. 

Carefully, he took the cup out of the pile and placed it into his left hand’s palm to join the sandwich wedged in his fingers. The pitcher’s handle hung on his left fingers as well but he had a plan. He needed his right arm for the tiny keg he’d picked up a few months ago, wherever it was.

The keg was integral to his plan but he had faith. His kitchen was small , with only a little pantry and a few cabinets to check. The cabinets gave him nothing and the pantry held only a few bags of rice, some dried herbs, and his water barrel. Harlea frowned. It was somewhere, he’d not drunk it yet.  

He closed the pantry and stuck his head back out the kitchen door to check the living room again. On the side of the table, next to his bedroll and fishing rod, his little keg waited for him with his favourite coffee sitting upside down on top.

“Everything as it should be.” He muttered contently to himself as he made his way over to scoop up the keg. He picked up the mug and found it heavier than he’d expected. To his surprise, his coin pouch was wedged inside the mug, heavy with the coins he needed for his deposit. He pulled out the coin, popped it in his back pocket and looped his pinky finger through the mug’s handle. 

His fingers strained from the weight of the pitcher and mug and Harlea relented. The base of the pitcher clunked on the floor and Harlea abandoned the water for later. Ale first, then water was the rule. 

As he stood up, the weight of the coins dragged on his shorts and threatened to disrobe what little clothes he had on. He hoicked his pants back up and prepared himself to lift the keg up, filled with a sense of immense satisfaction in life.

With his right hand carrying the cups and the sandwich, he squatted next to the keg and used his left arm to wrestle it up off the ground. By wrapping his left arm completely underneath the keg’s belly, and then pressing it into his waist, he managed to get enough friction to pull himself up onto his feet. 

The keg was heavier than he’d expected, considering how it was only the size of a bucket. The wood had been polished well with the varnish holding up well despite how well-loved the keg clearly was. Harlea readjusted so his hip took the brunt of the weight and shuffled forwards. He acclimated to the slight hobble as he walked with all of his goodies and enjoyed how the keg looked like a little puppy with its tap sticking out like a dog’s nose did. A bittersweet memory of Osexi’s little dog, Sebastian, hit him from nowhere. 

Sebastian would follow Osexi around the house whenever she was home, the perfect lapdog with a heart of gold. Then, as soon as Sebastian was left with Harlea, his demonic side would come out. Harlea would have to constantly watch his back, in case Sebastian wanted to have a go at his ankles and relished in snapping and growling at Harlea from his little bed. 

On the few occasions that Harlea caught Sebastian, he’d hold him on his waist just like the keg and let him tear into his hand and forearm, content that the rage the dog felt was worth the pain of being mauled. 

Harlea wandered over towards the hallway and tilted the keg backwards on his hip as he went, mimicking a little yap for his new alcohol-carrying companion. A chuckle rumbled in his chest as passed through the hallway door and ran the gauntlet of hallway mess. 

Step by step, he moved towards the front door, carefully watching for any of the boots and sandals that were scattered through the small corridor. He switched between watching the floor ahead of him and the cup he was balancing in his palm, holding his breath as he moved. He slowed his pace as a bout of dizziness hit. As he steadied himself against the wall, he repeated his favourite mantra for hangovers.

“My suffering is my own fault and I will definitely do it again.”

As always, the mantra was correct. The night before had been a proper laugh and he was already planning on getting a buzz again. As repugnant as the idea of the first sip of puppy-keg ale was, he knew the pure joy of being tipsy in the morning sun was going to be worth it. 

Common sense said that day drinking was a stupid plan, given how sick he felt, but he could not care less. It was his stupid; his bad choice to make on a day where he got to call the shots. 

A single day of stupid that ended the shocking run of busy day after busy day. They'd been on the road for ten days non-stop and finishing the slow grind with the Garrond Cross debacle had been the stressful cherry on top. 

The pay out from the two contracts had been worth it, with the coin from both the Board and the loot they’d scavenged being very lucrative. The coin had filled up their coffers and they’d had nearly every injury be mendable.

Sure, there were a few unanswered questions but that was the way of adventuring. One was who was in the cabin, another was why the Board had agreed to pay them for the Garrond Cross contract and both of them were beyond Harlea. When they’d left Garrond Cross, the mayor had sworn to all manner of gods living and dead that Harlea and the rest of them wouldn’t see a single coin for what they’d done. Her reaction wasn’t that surprising but the way the Board had leapt at the chance to stamp the contract and shuffle him out of the door had left perplexed.

When they’d talked about it at the Spoon, they’d all agreed that they’d take the coin and push it from their minds. In theory, Harlea agreed.

Harlea reached back with his sandwich hand and gave his coin pouch a happy little tap in his pocket. First things first, tipsy sunbathing and then a wander over to Nicolas. Then, back to doing whatever he wanted to do for the day.

As he reached the front door, he extended his pinky to push the bolt lock out from its catch and worked to claw the door open from there. He needed three of his fingers and half his sandwich to work up the power to flick the door backwards slightly but it worked as his foot jammed in the small space before the door could close again.  

He keg back up his side and pried the door back for him to slip through. The door banged against his back but he paid it no mind as he stepped out into the dawn light.

The cool morning air gave him a brisk welcome as he stumbled forward. The dim light of the coming day had begun to emerge through the tall townhouses around Harlea’s cottage but was some way from joining him on the porch. It was cool for now but not for long, as was standard in the Valleys, The south was consistently muggy and they’d not got far enough into the wet season for the rain to be a continuous feature. Like every day in the dry season, the heat would hide for the first few hours of light before slowly baking Ol’Haran on the side of Hill Haran. 

It was yet another benefit of him keeping his cottage rather than living in the skinny little townhouses that were all the rage on the hill. His snug cottage hid behind his dense, unruly garden and gave him peace in the crazy townfolk world. His favourite wooden lounge chair sat on his porch where he’d built it and he knew that it would always be there for him.

He hurried over to the chair and dropped the keg onto its armrest, relieved to have made it. With a quick readjustment, he worked the keg down onto the floor. 

“At-ta-ta-ta,” Harlea breathed through the wave of nausea as he knelt down and placed the keg onto the ground. He switched the sandwich into his left hand and then used his right to delicately balance his mug and cup on the top of one of the keg’s metal hoops. 

The mug kept its balance and he soared back up onto his feet, returning like a phoenix back from his ale-soaked ashes. A slight wobble tested his composure but he steadied himself on the back of the lounge chair.

He forced himself to have another bite of the sandwich and let his eyelids shut as his stomach revolted. Chewing slowly and using the chair for support, the feeling came and then went, as it always did. 

The physicians always said food and liquid was important to kick the hangover, Harlea just hoped he could keep both of them down.  Moving around to the front of the chair, he eagerly fell into the cushioned seat.

He leant over and picked up his mug. The cup still sat inside the mug’s well and resisted the urge to flick it out with his fingers.

Grumbling angrily to himself, Harlea stuffed the sandwich in his mouth and used his second hand to pull the cup out and place it on the back of the armrest. The keg sat patiently at his feet, just out of reach but tantalisingly close. 

He hefted himself up and over the armrest, careful to hang over the edge enough to reach the keg but not so much that he’d tumble from his chair. With practised efficiency, he deftly flicked the keg’s tap on and filled the cup with only one hand. Once the mug was sufficiently full, his pinky turned the tap off and he levered his body back into the comforting embrace of his cushioned chair, drink in hand and not a drop spilt.

The large chair sat in the perfect position, just as he’d planned. Several steps from the front cottage’s front door and close enough to the edge of the porch that the sun would come in and warm him while he napped. 

It was one of his latest additions to the front garden and he could firmly say that he was in love with his new seat. He’d fashion the chair from seven pine logs, placing cushions he’d found at the River Markets on its back, seat and arms. Some nights when he was on the road, he dreamt of sitting in the soft cushions of his wonderful new chair and watching time pass. 

Harlea placed his feet up on a little stool he’d positioned in front of the chair and contented himself with sinking deep his sunrise chair’s embrace. He tore a chunk of sandwich with his teeth as his right hand went back to holding the last bits of his breakfast. Peace, tranquility, and then another bite of his sandwich as he rested on the chair, with his left hand tightly wrapped around his mug but his right leaving the last pieces of sandwich on his belly as his eyes felt so, so heavy. 

Without opening his eyes, he pulled at the coin pouch in his pocket to shift it to a more comfortable spot for napping. Then, a little sip of his ale and his cup went into a little nook he’d made in the cushions for just such an occasion and he prepared himself for a nice little kip.  

He turned in towards the cushions, attempting to sit still so his body heat could warm them up while he laid there. When time allowed, he would sit in the chair with a cup of tea and welcome the first rays of sunlight that broke through the tall houses around him, enjoying the tea’s sweet taste and gentle heat to prepare for his business.

No tea for now but he drifted in and out of sleep as he savoured the last vestiges of flavour of the ale. Sleep beckoned him but proved harder to reach than he’d hoped. His nose throbbed with a steady dull pain and stung if air passed through it rather than his mouth.

The fact that his nose had been broken by a cheap shot from a country bumpkin made it worse. The physician told him that the pain would disappear after a few days if he left the physician’s mending alone but Harlea suffered more from the injustice than the physical pain.

He suspected it was his bad karma accumulating. Giving him a black eye and a broken nose as punishment. Karma or the Old Souls punishing him, whichever ended up being real. 

Something was furious about how he let Viera walk all over him and the Red Damnables. Since she’d come to Ol’Haran, she had beggared his every step, haunting him whenever he was in town with the threat of blackmail if he didn’t jump when she said.

Harlea fidgeted, rage still burning within him from how she’d ordered him to go to Nohlan lands to set fire to Good Gods only knew what.

Harlea closed his eyes and focussed on what he could change. He could enjoy his day, his morning, and the gentle breeze as it ran up his bare leg. 

A shiver ran up his spine and he quickly pulled at his shorts to make sure no more errant air could catch him by surprise while he sat. 

Another thing he could control was what clothes he wore. He could, even probably should, have worn a shirt when he came outside but it was his choice to make. 

He also didn’t have to wear red whenever he left home but he relished in the absurdity.  Every joke, question, and confused look he got was worth it to be known as the captain of the Red Damnables. Folk knew who the Damnables were and so many of the locals in Ol’Haran had told him how proud Osexi would have been with him getting the crew back home. 

Harlea’s hand felt for the familiar shape of his mug at his side. He shifted his side up slightly so he lay on his back more and brought the mug up for a sip. Harlea wished he could agree with the townsfolk but, deep down, he knew Osexi would be livid if she were still alive.

He returned the mug back to its safe place as the brew burned going down his throat. It burned like one of the good ales; being a much better drop than he’d expected when he’d bought it off a travelling merchant. 

He could remember the day well, coming back from Tuelton with sacks full of silk, bellies full, and shenanigans on the rise as they reached the outskirts of Ol’Haran. They’d been suspicious when they’d noticed the travelling merchant with her strange-looking carriage in the middle of the Dark Forest but approached her regardless. She had been raging about being kicked out of the River Markets and going on about northerners and their strange sensibilities when Harlea had asked whether he could have a look at her goods. His interruption had only pissed her off even more but when Harlea showed the quality of the silk they carried with them, she had been too eager to find something to catch his eye. Of all her funny trinkets the little keg just for him had been utterly enchanting.

And, to think, that keg ended up being such an integral part of his perfect day. It seemed almost too good to be true. Harlea felt the soft embrace of sleep wrap around him and he made little effort to fight it. He had intended on napping later. First, perhaps getting breakfast, then maybe out into town before he eventually succumbed to sleep but napping first worked just as well. His errand could always happen a bit later and he’d need his sleep if they were off to the Wild plains the next day. 

The world slipped past him for the briefest of moments in Harlea’s mind but, when he awoke, the first rays of a rising sun had managed to find him in his comfy wooden lounge. The heat slowly warmed his body and brought life back to him. His eyes fluttered back open and he reached for his mug out of instinct. The mug was still where he had wedged it but his sandwich had been lost to the cushions. His fingers reached down and dug the bread back up. The cushions were relatively clean, and Harlea liked to live with the five hour rule, so into his mouth the rest of the sandwich went. 

Pain radiated out from his nose and Harlea stretched his jaw from one side to the other to make the pain worse. He needed a better mender. 

He swung his feet back off the small stool and grabbed his mug as he sat up again. Sitting down was a mistake. Sleep was great but he’d sleep the entire day if he wasn’t careful. His morning off should be one where he could roam and drink, lying down was for later. For the dead. A better plan was for him to go on Osexi’s promenade path in the front yard. A walk through the garden was just what he needed, with the fresh air, nice smells, and ample space for vomiting.

Pushing off his quads, Harlea forced himself back up and walked forward to the edge of the porch. By his estimation, it was a Tuesday for the cityfolk and he watched as many of them had already begun to file out of their homes to get work. Several passers-by gave him dirty looks as he observed them walking wearily past. One man scowled openly and appeared to be on the very edge of saying something to Harlea as he stalked along the road. Harlea loved the idea of having a chat and offered the grumpy sod a little wave as encouragement. The man started and hurried off with his little pants in a huff, no doubt off to his little job in his little life. 

Harlea smiled smugly to himself. He didn’t have to go to his little job today. He got to stay in his little house and drink from his little keg while he avoided thinking about his little life. 

He downed the rest of the ale in his mug and turned back to the keg. With a frown, he picked it up and popped it onto the stool next to him. Resting his left hand on the top of the keg, Harlea tilted forward to fill his mug once more.The tap poured more of the delicious ale into his mug until the ale came right up to the brim. 

With a devilish grin, he stood back up and looked out over the absolute wreckage that was his front yard. From the fence and gate right up to the porch was a mess of gigantic weeds, overgrown bushes, and odd knick knacks. The pear saplings that Osexi had planted a few years ago had grown up to be unruly towering trees on the edge of the property, dominating the limited space of his front yard. Beneath the pear trees’ watchful gaze were a mix match of different plants that thrived in the southern climate and demanded their own piece of the thick suburban jungle Harlea had let eventuate. And every one of them was going to be an incredible pain in Harlea’s ass to sort out when the time came. It was a truly beautiful sight. 

He swallowed the last of his sandwich and walked down the steps of his porch to reach the narrow trail of stepping stones that sat amongst the unkempt foliage. The promenade path was made up of two circles of stepping stones intersecting with a path that led to the front gate of his cottage. Osexi had planned on the circles being a figure eight but they hadn’t managed to make the circle line up correctly. 

Harlea would go to his grave swearing that he had done the left side correctly. According to the plan that Osexi had drawn up, his circle was exactly in the right position to intersect hers. Hers was just a damned mess in comparison. He started along the central path until he could begin skipping along the stones of his circle. His attempt at a herb garden sat on the right side of his path, deep within the shade of the pear trees. Of all the herbs he’d tried to plant, the oregano had won, with it now being a large bush that covered the entire wooden planter box. The dill, basil, and chillies hadn’t fared as Harlea had hoped and had instead fallen beneath the dense leaves of the oregano. No matter though, the whole oregano could come out and get dried when the time came. 

With a little shake of the wooden bed, he was pleased to find it was still in good condition. When he got to it, he’d grab more seeds and be on his way again. 

If he ever had enough time again. Being constantly busy was annoying, more than he’d realised it would be. The work was just constant as the captain with most of the work being boring when they were in town. Training needed to happen and the Board needed to be met. He had a long list of supplies they needed for their contracts and errands he needed to run to ensure their contracts ran smoothly. And all of it had to be done in the few days between contracts, which left so little time for fun.

And, as much as he wanted to blame Viera for their constant contracts, they’d been inundated for the last few months from all manner of contract offerers. There was such a wealth of contracts from the Board in the Spoon and, out of the Board’s purview, many asked Harlea to meet with them for some contract or another. Which only further chewed into his precious little free time. 

Fiona had been of the opinion recently that they needed to reduce the amount of contracts they went on. She had complained loudly that she needed more time at home and the others had grumbled along with her.

Six months of constant travel and work had started to wear thin on them all. Not a shock to Harlea, he was tired as well but the success was so addictive.

The weren’t on the same gold or specialist contracts of their hay day but he’d built up some good connections in the last half year and Harlea could almost taste the former glory of the Red Damnables. 

The idea of returning the Red Damnables to their former glory gave him a warm feeling in his stomach. Or the ale was starting to really hit, he couldn’t be sure.
He threw back another long swig of the ale and wandered around the circle to return to the porch. Only slowing down slightly to place the mug on the porch’s edge, he continued his walk around to the right circle of the misaligned figure eight. His garden shears leant against the edge of the porch, standing inside a pile of dead leaves that he’d cut from the path several months ago. 

He brushed his hands along the branches of the living plants on his other side and revelled in how quickly the shrubs had grown back. The tenacity of his plants was admirable and Harlea couldn’t help but be pleased that they’d get to live wildly for just a bit longer. 

Theoretically, he could sort them out after they returned from Coalpass if all things went well. They ought to get some good coin for the contract and they could have a week off after they went to the tournament in Dark Hold if they all agreed to it. The tournament would be just what the crew needed to come together. Then, another week to rest and he’d have Fiona and Elayne banging on his door demanding they hit the road. 

For now, a morning walk through his little slice of jungle at home would suffice while he bided his time. In that week, he could cut his garden down to size and even see about moving his path slightly so it made more of a figure eight with Osexi’s circle. A lifetime ago, Harlea and the rest of the Red Crew had planned to surprise her with a fortnight off so they could redo the entire promenade path. On her fiftieth, they’d organise for the Board to give her a fake contract to surprise her as they all worked together to fix her circle. 

When the war happened, Harlea had made the promise to himself that they’d do it as soon as they returned.  

And now. Now, he’d get to it when he could. When he got a windfall or he finally had a change of pace, somehow.  He circled back around to the porch and began his second promenade, as wanky as the word was. 

The sort of two-coin term he’d use if he ever did become a bard. He’d thought about it often; hire someone to teach him the lute and then practise a shit-ton until he could write his own songs. He’d probably never be much good with the instrument but, oh, the stories he could tell. 

He ran through his beard and let his mind wander with the idea. The Silver Spoon filled to the brim as he told stories of the dungeons he’d explored and the monsters he’d dragged down. He would spare no gory detail or foul moment in his songs, giving everyone insight into the horrid trade of the adventurer. 

Being asked for stories was a constant in his life, with the townsfolk eager to hear of the Red Damnable’s exploits whenever he was back home. The real issue would be choosing which stories to make songs about first, back when he was younger or now that he was the captain. It was tough to know what adventures would come first but he was thrilled by the idea of getting to share his perspectives on adventuring and - 

He walked for a few steps and struggled to think of the word he wanted. Like life but the difficult parts, the struggle of life even. 

“Life.” He concluded to himself and continued to progress on his perpetual walk. There was another word for it but it refused to help him as it sat on the tip of his tongue. So often, he would have such vivid ideas in his mind but have only so few words to explain them. 

One word he did know well was trudge and, while he was fast becoming sick of his promenade, he was eager for a few more trudges around his garden. 

His stomach grumbled in discontent as it battled against the sandwich and ale but he ignored it. Osexi had always warned him to find a hobby before he got older, convinced he’d need something to keep him occupied as he aged. She’d most often nag him about hobbies when she’d dragged him out to garden with her. When she’d badgered him too much, he’d always told her his hobby was drinking and then he’d receive a telling off for being so flippant all the time. 

What he needed was a pet, not a hobby. Like a dog or that lovely wolf from the eastern hills, had it survived. The wolf would have been better because it could have tagged along for their contracts every so often once he got it trained. The idea made sense but Harlea struggled as a heaviness began to weigh him down as he trudged. Good Gods, he was tired.

Harlea kicked a pebble off one of the stone stepping stones and watched it bounce into the bushes. Even if he did get a dog, what would he do with it on the days he couldn’t bring it with him?

The question bounced around his head with no easy solution coming to mind.

“Telli’s Grace, I need to find more shit to do on my day off.” Harlea announced to the plants around him. He noticed a flash of dull red and blue within the weeds and stopped to bend down for a proper look. 

He knew all too well who he’d seen. On the left circle, a few steps past the herb garden, it was none other than Gnora the Gnarden Gnome. She was only just visible past the thick branches of a lavender bush but she still stood as his mighty garden sentry. 

Back in the day, they’d placed twelve of the gnomes throughout the yard, one for each of their regulars of the Red Damnable crew. Gnora was Dorrien’s gnome back when he was a Damnable. 

His third walk around the circuit came to an end and Harlea stopped only to get more ale for his mug. Like before, the drink went down nicely and he carried it with him on his fourth, and potentially final, trudge. 

As he walked, his stomach grumbled once more. With a hand placed on top, he willed it to be patient. He was much hungrier than he should have been but he had a sneaking suspicion he knew why. The foggy memory of a rose bush and the stench of fresh vomit came to mind. 

It was never ideal to vomit on some poor stranger’s roses but Harlea was confident he had the fix for it. As he went to Nicolas’ forge, he’d drop by the markets for something tasty and that would help with putting the memory behind him.  

The crowd out the front of his house had started to swell, with the road taking on a considerable mass of weary, apathetic travellers. 

Harlea wanted to feel smug about it. Annoyingly smug as he witnessed others having to wake up early like he normally did. But, sadly, there was a particular face standing out in the crowd that ruined it for him. Heading straight towards Harlea was none other than the Mad Baron of the Outers, Jorgia Ulirsa.