It's early yet - a few days before the thing proper, and therefore far too early to be giving away gifts. But between Base Operations overseeing both a delayed provisioning request and a surprise donation of second hand armor and sabers willed by some eccentric old salle master in Ostwick, and a concentrated effort of the Research department to catalog a number of archival artifacts before year's end, and the brokering of the import of a particular cut of Orlesian walnut wood for the eventual stock of The Rifle, it promises to be a busy week indeed. If the thing is to be done, it had best be done promptly before she is too tangled in some other task to see the matter properly conducted.

Or she is just impatient. What difference does it make really? The sum of the thing is all the same: one brisk morning, between one steel clatter and the next, Wysteria simply appears on some convenient seat (an overturned bucket, a bale of old straw, or whatever have you) at the edge of the training yard as the morning drills are coming to a close.

She is waiting patiently, slightly pink in the face thanks to the chill of the fall air and wrapped in her bright red and elaborately embroidered half cloak against it. There is a largeish, roughly square, and only slightly lumpy package wrapped in brown paper then tied with twine balanced in her lap. What is perhaps most evident of all is that she hasn't come to practice her archery.