Daphne exhaled slowly, pulling back from her stance until the leather of her boots rubbed together with a soft squeak, and she took in another long, deep breath. She exhaled just as slowly and pulled both of her arms back slowly, her long-sword clasped tightly in both hands. The blade pointed upwards, held in such a way that the hilt touched the leather belt wrapped tightly around her hips lightly. Daphne took in another deep breath as she held her preparatory stance again and her eyes locked onto a single point on the wooden wall, examining it intently.

The auburn-haired woman did not see the wall of her tiny shack. She saw soldiers of all kinds before her, from Tindra berserkers to Hari duellists, all of them with their fire in their eyes and with their weapons poised to strike. Some of the individuals resembled people she knew, or at least had known, but many were simply figments of her wild imagination. Their movements were slow and deliberate as if trying to keep a safe distance from Daphne while they sized up their competition. Daphne placed one foot further forwards than the other again, a wide stance to give her the greatest amount of balance, and tilted her sword forwards ever so slightly as if offering her challenge.

Her first opponent mimicked a foe she had duelled two days prior on a contract for the Silver Leaves. Daphne felt as If her battle against him had been sloppy, and she decided it was best to tighten up her skills against such a towering opponent. A large, burly black-blood, made almost entirely out of rippling muscles that were barely covered by metal plating, came into view. He held a gruesome looking cleaver which rested loosely in his right hand but in the other he held a finely crafted short-sword. It looked more like a knife in the hulk’s hands, and as if to prove it he ran the edge of the short-sword against the edge of the oversized cleaver, the swords letting out a high pitched whine as metal struck metal.

Grinning a toothy grin, the orc positioned himself a few metres away from Daphne. He raised his cleaver and pointed it menacingly towards the mercenary woman, an attempt to appear imposing and threatening which had almost no impact. Daphne paid little attention to the façade, only acknowledging the strength that was needed to raise such a weapon with one hand, and locked eyes with the orc. His lips moved just as they had done when they had fought, hurling some threat or insult towards the smaller woman which she paid no heed to. She didn’t need to be ridiculed by her own imagination.

As the sun rose just enough to peak over the skyline of the village that was nestled just outside of the Silver Leaves’ bastion, Daphne’s room was flooded with the dawn’s sunlight. It irritated her eyes even while they were closed, and quickly brought her out of her rather lucid daydream. One hand left the hilt of her blade and moved up to her eyes, rubbing them softly as they adjusted to the light, and she moved to draw the curtains of the only eastern window in her bedroom. Light still filtered through the thin strips of fabric but it made the morning light a little more tolerable. With the distraction reduced she returned to her stance, trying to visualise the goliath in her mind once more. 

Sunlight was not the only distraction Daphne was fighting against and she found her focus hard to find. Her neck ached and the skin underneath her eyes was dark, a clear sign of how hard she was fighting to stay awake. When Daphne healed a wound it was always done with haste and was never done with traditional healing magic. A gash along her side that she had received a few days ago from the very same orc she was imagining fighting, a mild wound that was not particularly serious but had hurt more than she wanted to admit, had been stitched together in a rush by her magic but was clearly not done tormenting her. The pain had flared up an hour after she had finally dropped off to sleep the previous night and it kept her awake since.

While the pain had faded it was far too late to consider sleep, but the lack of it was making it hard to concentrate on anything but the comfortable bed that rested beside her. How tempting it was to get another few hours rest before she was needed up at the Bastion and arrive there rested and recuperated.

Daphne’s face twisted into a scowl and her grip on her sword’s hilt grew tighter. She had to abandon any ideas of rest out of her mind. She threw her body forward in a sudden lunge, the metal edge of her long-sword slicing through the air with a clean and sharp whistle. She imagined it piercing the arm of her foe who had not expected such a swift strike, ripping flesh and tearing skin. Daphne’s right hand left her weapon and she followed up the thrust with a sudden punch to the figure’s gut. The black-blood recoiled but Daphne was not finished with him, pulling with her left hand and pushing with her right to draw her blade out of his arm quickly and cleanly.

Grabbing the hilt of the blade with both hands once more, Daphne aimed the tip in the centre of the orc’s chest. She imagined him looking up to her, fear spread across his face and his blood running cold as she brought the blade forwards and impaled him swiftly. The blade jut out from the orc’s back, coated black grime. The orc’s last breath would escape his lips and, when she drew her weapon back out from his chest, he would sink to the floor and move no more.

No, that was too easy.

The woman imagined her first thrust met clean air, the orc dodging it seamlessly. He struck the side of her face with the back of his hand. The metal of his gauntlet cut lightly into her face, a small trickle of blood moving down her cheek. Daphne managed to keep her balance after the strike, yes, but she purposely threw herself to the floor and rolled a short distance away from the orc. She narrowly missed the brute’s cleaver which he swung overhead and brought crashing down into the ground beside her. Her grip loosened and her own sword fell from her grip, clattering across the floor and just out of reach. She felt herself crash into a small table in her room when she rolled, knocking off everything on top of it, but she was entirely focused on the combat style that her mind had constructed for her imaginary foe and cared little about the trail of destruction she was starting to leave through her room.

A hand fell down to her belt and gripped her knife. Daphne pulled it out quickly and brought her arm forwards, aiming the blade for the orc’s forearm. Grabbing his wrist with the other hand to hold his arm still, Daphne brought he knife down to hack at the black-blood’s limb. He yelped in pain and his grip on the gigantic cleaver slacked, giving her enough time to twist her body and kick the blade away across the floor.

She heard a chair topple over as she kicked it.

Preparing herself for her meeting at the Bastion, tiding up her room. hiding all of the new sword marks in the furniture, and apologising to a neighbour who had complained about her making such a racket had taken another forty minutes. Daphne was now outside, walking the streets of the village that lived in the shadow of the Silver Leaves bastion. The wind was cold and sharp and bit at her face, just like every morning, but it put a spring in Daphne’s step as her tiredness began to subside. 

She took in a breath of fresh air, pulled her cloak a little closer to her body and set her sights on the Bastion. Daphne made a slow march towards the towering castle, down the winding streets and passages of the village that she knew all too well until the Bastion’s towering gates were in sight.