Morning. Ugh. It was probably no coincidence that the word sounded freakishly similar to that thing you do when someone dies. Both were things to be avoided at all costs.

Morning.

For five minutes alone with the inventor of the word, Cleo was dead certain she'd give pretty much anything. Not just for her own sake, mind you, but for the sake of everyone else in the world, to take satisfaction for this crime that was perpetrated each and every time the sun rose. So in the end, it would all be in the name of justice, which would be a very good thing. Cleo prided herself on a strong sense of justice, so she would be the perfect candidate to take on this task.

Cleo belted the robe tightly around her waist and half-blindly groped for the doorknob, one thought ringing through her mind like an unceasing chant. Coffee. Coffee. Sweet, beautiful coffee, giver of life, nurturer of us all...

Eyes still blurred from sleep, Cleo made her way down the hall to the kitchen. She didn't need to see well to navigate the house that she had lived in for so long, but even if the place were unfamiliar to her, the coffee's sweet siren song would have drawn her to the appropriate place.

Once in the kitchen, Cleo set to work making her beloved drink.

It is hard to imagine 'setting to work' to make coffee, unless you have met Cleo. For her, there was indeed a great deal of work involved in the making of coffee. In fact, coffee was probably the thing she made best.

Indeed, there have been rumours that Cleo's coffee is almost drinkable-- the top half, at least. The bottom half(the dregs, they were called out of Cleo's earshot) was a thick, black, gloppy substance best suited to patching holes in walls, or perhaps used in place of tar on one's roof.

But, dregs or no, coffee was coffee, and Cleo needed her coffee to function. A coffeeless Cleo was usually an unconscious one.

To be fair, Cleo knew that she was far from an expert at making coffee, or, indeed, anything else in the kitchen, but until anyone else offered better, then her own coffee was the coffee she drank. It had been so much easier when Gremio had been around, he was always up(peh... morning people... if ever a single group of people had ever universally deserved a summary execution...), and always had a pot of coffee ready, and he had always been able to translate Cleo's incomprehensible growls into "Please, either kill me now or give me coffee."

As Cleo quickly downed her third cup of sludge(quickly so as to drink it before it settled, though an argument can be made that the speed of the drinking is inversely proportional to the taste), she realized just how much she missed Gremio. And not just for the selfish, incapacity in the kitchen reasons, too.

She missed the sense of danger that had come from living near him after his... breakdown. She missed having someone around she could borrow a hairbrush from. She missed... him, in general. He'd been a good guy to have around, even when he was hunting 'wabbits'. And, yeah, she missed having someone around who could actually cook.

Like a 'good girl' drinking all of her medicine, Cleo finished her 'coffee', not bothering with the cup this time and just drinking from the pot. That was one thing she didn't miss about Gremio. He'd have told her to use a cup. The true coffee-drinking, non-morning people of the world would have realized the need to drink from the pot and have encouraged her. Though they would have frowned at the fact that it really was sludge rather than coffee.

Suitably caffinated, Cleo headed for the shower.

The habit of drinking coffee prior to showering may seem like an odd one, but it had its origins in the fact that covering yourself in hot water is a thing best done by the fully conscious.

Cleo, naturally, had discovered this the hard way. Ever since then, she'd been staunchly in favour of waking up, then letting hot water touch her bare skin. It really made sense if you thought about it, though mornings were not times for thinking.

Nothing good had ever come of a morning except an afternoon. And Cleo wasn't too keen on those, either. She was this close to living an inverted day. The only thing stopping her was the fact that no one else was interested in taking up the practice.

Cleo stepped out of the shower, more or less ready to face the day. At least, she would be once she put some clothes on. She decided to wear purple, because, dammit, she liked purple. And because most of her clothes were purple, anyway.

Clean, dressed, and with only a slight amount of blood going through her caffeine stream, Cleo decided to attack(figuratively speaking, of course) something that had been nagging her for... well, at least a day or two.

Fact: The Young Master has been gone for a good three years now.

Fact: Gremio went slightly... bonkers after said disappearance.

Fact: Gremio left in search of the Young Master around a year ago.

Fact: The Young Master is one of the more famous people in the world.

Query to above: How hard can it be to find one of the more famous people in the world?

Cleo didn't like being so analytical, but with this matter, and with it still being fairly early in the morning, this way was probably best. She made a promise to herself to do something without thinking about it at all some time soon to make up for her over-thought right now.

Assumption: The Young Master could take care of himself.

Supposition: Considering his state, Gremio probably couldn't.

Extrapolation: Gremio was in some sort of trouble and had not found the Young Master yet.

Fact: Cleo really had nothing better to do, anyway.

Conclusion: Cleo was gonna head up to Jowston, bail Gremio out of whatever mess he'd gotten himself into, find the Young Master for him, and return home to palatable coffee. The Republic'd have its real ruler back, and Gregminster would be out of its cheapest source of wall-patching material.

And now, if this turned out to be an excessively stupid idea, she could always say it had seemed like a good one at the time, and be absolutely honest about it.

Now, all she had to do was get permission to carry out her idea.

"... And that, Lepant, sir, is why I think I should be allowed to go to Jowston."

"Good morning to you, too, Cleo."

Cleo blushed slightly, looked away. "I guess it is kind of early... I didn't realize that when I though of this... But can I go?"

Lepant looked Cleo up and down. "I suppose that if I say no, that you'll just find some way to work around me, correct?"

As she shrugged, a faint smile touched Cleo's lips. No one had ever accused Lepant of stupidity-- and if they had, they soon learned otherwise. "Probably," she said agreeably.

"Then I really don't want to have to outlaw you, and I don't think you're one to accidentally start wars when you're traveling. You can go to Jowston, Cleo."

"Thank you."

"Will you be needing an escort to the border?"

Cleo paused, thinking about that. Finally she said, "No, I think I'll be fine on my own. Thanks for offering, though."

Lepant nodded. "Will that be all, Cleo?"

"Actually, could I get a map of Jowston? It doesn't have to be too accurate at all, just enough so that I have an idea of what's where."

"I'll see what I can do."

"And would you at all be able to convert some of my money to potch? All I have is bits."

"Of course, Cleo."

"And could I have a horse-- at least until I get to the border? I'd really rather go the whole way overland, at least until I get to Banner. Boats really make me fairly queasy."

Lepant sighed. "Is there anything else at all you'll be needing?"

"Well, I really could use five golden rings, four calling birds, three French hens, two turtledoves, and a partridge in a pear tree," Cleo deadpanned. "But seriously speaking, no, I think that should about c