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From Little Bridge on the west side of the city all the way up to the Citadel Mountain gate was a snaking road that steadily climbed altitude as it went up the mountain.  If one were to cut off-road and try to shorten the distance between, the slopes were much steeper.  That was exactly what Zell was doing as he sprinted bridge-to-gate.

Quads burning.  [i]Don't stop![/i]  Calves burning.  [i]Let's go![/i] Lungs burning. [i]Come on![/i]

They say the strength and speed of a swordsman's first step was often the difference in a duel between adversaries of similar competence.  The tactical element of commanding initiative and dictating the pace of the fight could not be overlooked.  Similarly, in field battle, the explosiveness of the line infantry's charge could also be the deciding factor - to push the enemy backward, or better yet, break completely through and force the opposing general into reactivity rather than proactivity.

Zell kept sprinting in spite of barely being able to feel his legs.  A few nobles and dignitaries coming down the hill, quickly stepped aside to give this uncouth brute way, watching him with disgust as he flew past them, sweating, grunting and growling like an animal.  Almost there.  Almost there.  He reached out with a hand as the gate neared, his speed slowing even though he was giving it all he had for the final thirty yards.  Aaaaaaand he slapped the polished brick of the archway.

"Fuck," he wheezed breathlessly, hands going to his knees for standing-rest, before he stood up straight and walked to the grass at roadside and collapsed.  "Woo!"

That was his fourth trip up the mountain this morning.  He was going for five sets of sprints, but he doubted he had another one in him.  After a short rest, he turned over and struggled through five sets of twenty push-ups and sit-ups before ending his training session with the fourth torturous journey back to the bridge.  On all fours.  Down hill.  Hands and feet, no knees allowed.  Such a journey would absolutely destroy the shoulder-muscles at the best of times.  But the incline and gravity going down the slope made this a nightmare.  "Here we go.  Last bit, Zell."

He wished he was dead.  Had this exercise not been a common fraternity competition to see who was on dishwasher duties for that week, Zell probably wouldn't have made it, but he was conditioned pretty well for this ridiculous task.  When he finally made it to Little Bridge, he sat on the ground and used the towel around his neck to wipe the salty, stinging sweat from his eyes.

...

After giving a hearty 'Mornin' to anyone who was in the taproom, Zell was talking to Frederick at the bar.

"Frederick, my mate.  That ham, egg and cheese toasted sandwich you made me yesterday... I'm gonna need six of them bad boys, if you don't mind."  Frederick's nose twitched a couple of times, likely at the point that he picked up the scent of Zell across the bar, who was no-doubt humming. "The greens with each one, yep. A cup of tea and a glass of milk too."  The Mended Drum's owner gave a nod, Zell saluting in return.  "You're a star, boss."

He downed a tankard of water before going to get himself sorted for the day.  The maid was kind enough to do his laundry while he showered, then he threw on the black pants and tee-shirt he'd just purchased on the way back home, and went downstairs with the purpose of obliterating those six meals... and maybe more.