[color=ed1c24][h1][u][center]Fiona Grear[/center][/u][/h1][/color]

Early to bed, early to rise. A fine sentiment when your commute to work was in the very town you resided. Less appealing when traveling incessantly, arriving late, then being expected to appear that same morning. Farmers prided themselves on their work ethic. Members of local militia needed to be ever ready, prepared to respond to any incident, any threat, with little to no notice.

Fiona needed to sleep for another five minutes.

Unfortunately, every other soul within Dawnhaven had missed that memo, and before she even had the hint of a spark of wanting to rise, sleep was stripped from her. Thrown to consciousness by the loud chatter nearby, Fiona pried herself from blankets and slumber, rising to aching feet and a full bladder; the former would resolve itself later, the latter was solved with a quick trip behind a tree. Shambling with all the liveliness of a recently buried corpse, she brushed down her tunic and trousers, shook out her aged, fraying black fur cloak, and strapped her longsword to her hip. Graceful as a swan, she hopped and hobbled, cursing under her breath as she fought to slip on her boots, narrowly avoiding going head over heels as she gave one boot a hard tug. Was she presentable? Her vivid red hair was a mess, and a quick glance in a bucket of water had her plucking small leaves from her locks. Using the same water, she splashed her face, gargled some, and promptly polished her shoes by spitting out all over them. 

Not her most glorious start to a day, she'd admit.

In a world of potential heroes vying to save, well, the world, she didn't look the part. Her posture slumped, she trudges through the crowd, not at all envious or bitter of those more alert than her. Her clothing's rumpled, she's still yet to eat breakfast, and aside from her brief chat with... Someone the night before, she doesn't know anyone present whatsoever. A stranger in a new land. Or at least part of the land she'd never visited before. Were it not for the amassing of bodies by the vacant stage, there's a very good chance she might have wandered off in the complete wrong direction too. For once, she's thrilled to see so many people.

A sentiment that lasts about all of ten seconds. She grumbles excuses and apologies as she weaves through an amalgamation of bodies, nudging those who ignore her halfhearted calls to move aside. What she wouldn't give for another few moments rest. Where is she meant to stand? Should she be talking to someone? She could ask questions, she supposes, but questions mean she has to talk to someone, and she has to be awake for at least twenty minutes to engage in conversation. So, instead of doing the sensible thing, she meanders her way forward, wending through people until she's almost at the front of the collective. With all the fervor of a child taken to lecture, she puts one hand on her hip, the other rising to stifle, and failing to do so, a loud yawn. Blinking back tears and exhaustion, she runs fingers through her tangled hair, glancing around and hoping serendipitously for an explanation to fall into her lap. That, or for someone to accost her, which will at least wake her up a little.