The morning of a fight was always nerve-wracking, but today the experienced fellow felt fairly at easy, leaning into as much routine as possible. Storm Veritas woke up feeling fresh and healthy; he had abstained from drinking the night before and had actually eaten well for a few days in a row. The old creaks and pangs still greeted him with every sunrise, but the aging wizard felt sufficiently limber to compete. Besides, whatever mechanical limitations he found himself faced with could easily be offset with the awesome power of his electromancy. He sat quietly in a small oaky restaurant, the only patron at the bar awaiting his breakfast. The sun was pouring in through the large east-facing windows, lighting the normal darkness with comfort and warmth. Conversely, the nervous shop owner was eagerly bustling about, hoping to appease the famously testy Lord of the city.

“Add a zip to the coffee, chief.” Storm clinked the small porcelain cup to its saucer, smiling the dimpled grin of a natural politician. “And relax! So long as I don’t smell any arsenic in my eggs, it’s going to be an easy and profitable morning for you.”

Dutifully the proprietor produced a bottle of whiskey, his hands shaking as the glass bottle clinked a nervous pour into the coffee. Mercifully, the young cook behind a partially blind wall had produced a warm, steaming plate that gleamed white beneath a well-seasoned and aromatic plate of eggs, toast, and fried potato pieces. As if shot from a cannon, the owner bolted to the plate, meticulously wiping the edges for any stray beads of condensation or dust that he could glance as he walked the straight path back to his guest.

“Made fresh, and I pray to your liking, m’Lord.”

Relishing the opportunity, Veritas lowered his nose to the plate, gently and deliberately inhaling the steam, a delicious blend of savory flavors. Suddenly, his eyebrow arched, the long, aquiline nose popping up and away from the plate to lock a suspicious squint upon the server. His steely gray eyes were locked upon the terrified man like a falcon diving upon a mouse. Reflexively, the waiter took a large step back, his hefty hips banging awkwardly into a row of ceramic mugs suspended on hooks beneath the elevated bar. The chatter of mugs rattling brought an eruption of laughter from the wizard.

“Relax! I’m fucking with you, friend. It smells great. Gods, the rumors about me must be ridiculous. Sit down, exhale, and stop panicking. Grab yourself a plate, join me if you’d like. Hell of a lot better than watching me eat, no?”

This did a great deal to ease the tension, and within a few minutes the pudgy, timid man joined the infamous Brotherhood Co-Leader. The magician was dressed in a taut, perfectly tailored white dress shirt with a striped charcoal sleeveless vest that matched his pants perfectly. Tall and thin, he attacked his plate with an avarice, favoring the knife in a way that kept the waiter uneasy. The daggers tucked neatly into the back of Storm’s belt had been readily noticed immediately upon his arrival.

Not too much, old man. Regardless of your draw, too much oil in the belly might slow you down. Another cup of coffee to grease the pipes and clear the system and you’re good to go.

Storm was generous and congenial with his host, insisting on refilling his own coffee – this time unencumbered by whiskey as the edge was already off – and learned about the married fifty-something father of four that confessed his fears of upsetting such an unwanted enemy. Storm finished, tipped the man embarrassingly well, and used the washroom before leaving the bar. As his leather shoes tapped the floor on his way out – his metal lined soles a trademark clacking noise the entire way - the small establishment began to close and evacuate.

Outside, Whitevale was a ghost town. It was a pleasant respite to not feel the eyes avert from him, nervous citizens blending curiosity with abject terror at the site of him. Veritas ran his fingers through his hair to pull it taut to his head – appreciative for the density of hair he was given, albeit quickly becoming more consistently streaked with whites and grays. The church bell in the town center sounded for the morning – ten booming rings that echoed through an eerily deserted area.

Fucking Shinsou, ever the showman. Can’t believe he paid these fools to relocate to Tylermande and Radasanth for the tournament.

The sun was already warm on his skin, even as it remained far from full height, but he wasn’t sweating and didn’t expect to. The path to the center of little stone homes opened in a clearing around the church, a verdant meadow of grass strewn with patches of crabgrass and dandelions. The air was clean down here; a beautiful day was coming.

The morning had started entirely too easily.