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The sun filtered in through the thin curtains over the frosted glass panes of Jack and Erin’s window. It couldn’t be long after sunrise, as the stinging sensation of daylight was what woke the nightbringer from his dream.

Beside him, Erin blinked and yawned.

“mmm… biscuits?” she mumbled.
“Sure, we can get up and go grab some from Saffron and Sugar, if you want,” he laughed.
“Mmm, no. Warm,” she grumbled and dragged him closer to her.

Then one eye opened and narrowed.

“Why are you warm?” she asked.
“I’m the same temperature as the room, plus being under the covers with you all night, space heater,” he chuckled.
“Oh. You’re usually cool. Not, like, cold… but you haven’t been warm since…” she stopped, a worried look painted on her face.
“It’s okay, hon. We’ve been camping outside, so I end up being whatever temperature it is outside,” he smiled gently.
“It’s nice that you’re warm,” she laid her head on his chest.
“I can jump in the hot bath before bed, if it makes you more comfortable,” he whispered.
“No, no. It’s not like that. It’s just… I worry about you,” she replied.
“I’m okay,” he smiled again.
“Did you know I can still hear your… heartbeat, I guess?” she trailed her fingers along his stomach.
“Yeah, it’s actually louder than my old heartbeat. When it’s even a little quiet, I can hear it. Like a drum, almost,” he replied.
“That’s what it is. It sounded off to me, but you’re right. It’s not like a whoosh whoosh, like fluid moving. It’s like a drum,” she pushed herself up so she could see his face, then her brow furrowed slightly at the sight of his ruined eye.
“It’s not moving the black stuff around. When I’m wounded, you don’t see spurts or dribbles of the stuff. It just flows out. Like… cold maple syrup, or something. The drum is my mana,” he smiled.

She sat up all the way, looking away from his wounded face.

“We should go see that person to get your eye fixed. It’s not fair, you having to sit here wounded,” she scowled.
“After we see the magistrate,” he replied.
“Fine,” she grumbled.

He rolled out of bed and kissed her cheek, then began to pull on a clean set of breeches and tunic.

“I’m gonna go get biscuits, then head down and help Findam with breakfast” he grinned at her.
“Okay,” she smiled at him. “I’ll get up soon. Swear.”
“I’ll bring you a plate up when I’m done,” he rolled his eye.

When he opened the door, he found a linen bag packed with his laundry, freshly washed and smelling of soap. On top of the bag was a black eyepatch and a note from Tilly that read, “For your face, your lordship.”

“Aww, look. Tilly got me a patch. Or made one, I guess,” he waved it at Erin, then placed it over his eye and tied the strings off behind his head.
“Mmm… sexy vampire pirate. Changed my mind. Come back to bed,” she grinned.
“Didn’t you get enough last night? I think Layla is a bad influence on you,” he laughed.
“Fine, fine. Biscuits. Then orgasms,” she nodded.
“Yes, ma’am,” the nightbringer gave her a lazy salute and locked the door behind him.

When he reached the taproom, he found Tilly wiping the tables down in preparation for breakfast.

“Morning, Tilly. I’m headed to Saffron’s to get some things to go with breakfast. Do you need anything while I’m out?” he asked.
“A dozen honey puffs, laddie, and if Saffron’ll sell it to yeh, a pound o’ flour for dinner t’night. Save me a trip ta the market,” she smiled when she noticed his face.
“And thanks for this,” he pointed at the patch.
“My pleasure, laddie. They’re easy ‘nough ta make,” she replied.
“Be back soon, Tilly,” he opened the door to the taproom and winced at the bright light before throwing up his hood.
“Try nae ta get shot in the face, yer lordship,” she called after him with a chuckle.

The bakery was less than what Jack would consider a city block from the Yam, and he weaved between the few passersby already walking the streets. His impression of Moryven so far was that most people rose at dawn, but the city didn’t really get moving until seventh bell or so.

Thus, he found the line at the bakery to be only a few deep, and quickly came to the counter.

“Morning, Honeybell,” he smiled.
“Oh, Master Jack, surprised to see you up and about. And you remembered my name as well,” she grinned.
“What do you mean?” he asked.

Saffron emerged from the shadows and gave Jack a sultry smile, then assessed his face with a curious expression. 

“Half the city’s already heard about your fight with Madpike’s gang. They say the Ghostblade shot you in the face with a crossbow, blew half your head out, but you turned into a shadow monster and beheaded a dozen men, and that the City Watch had to peel Madpike screaming from your claws,” the older woman explained.
“Oh, fuck’s sake,” he groaned.
“Well, give us the gossip. How much of that is true? I notice you’re wounded,” Honeybell pressed.
“Well, Irevich did shoot me… in the face, but the rest of that is mostly baloney,” he grimaced.
“It’s… sausage?” her quizzical expression made him laugh.
“It’s just an expression from my homeland,” he explained. “I’m fine. The rest is exaggerated, but Madpike was arrested. I have to go down and testify against him later today.”
“Well, good riddance to sour garbage,” Saffron scowled.
“Agreed,” he chuckled.
“Enough of that,” she dusted her hands. “What will you have today?”
“Two dozen honey puffs, two dozen biscuits, a loaf of fresh bread, and a pound of flour for… actually, I don’t know what it’s for. Tilly asked for it, so maybe bread or dumplings…” he scratched his head.
“I know which flour she wants. It’s for her crispy beer rolls,” Saffron smiled. “The farm that grows that type of grain is on the north side of the city, but they deliver about ten stone of milled flour a day here.”

Jack finished the transaction, tipped the two candy-haired women generously, and headed back toward the yam. He passed the Yam and took a left down a side road to stop at a boutique shop he had spotted while out and about the previous day. The tiny store was called “Jams, Baloupe, and Bear Lard”, which was apparently a pun or play on words based on rhyming or something that the Traveler translation ability didn’t parse correctly.

“Welcome to Jams, Baloupe, and Bear Lard, valued customer!” a wild-haired gnome shouted at him from across the shop. 

The diminutive creature was just under three feet tall, with tanned skin, vibrant emerald eyes, and a head of unruly, mottled hair the color and pattern of a dogwood tree. She leapt onto the counter, then down to the sales floor of the shop, vaulting the checkout booth and skidding to a halt in front of Jack’s boots.

“Hi,” he replied, stifling a laugh.
“I am Shinkwat Bamblebasket, proprietor of JAMS, BALOUPE, and BEAR LARD!” the gnome announced, seemingly determined to get a laugh from the shop’s name, which Jack now correctly surmised to be some kind of pun.
“Nice to meet you Shinkwat. I’m Jack,” he bit his lower lip, his already limited stoicism rapidly reaching a level of critical failure.

The little gnome seemed pleased by Jack’s thinly disguised grin. Apparently, any laugh was as good as the one she was aiming for.

“What can we do you for today, Master Jack?” she gestured to the cluttered shelves.

Jack looked again. The shelves weren’t just cluttered. This store was… jammed… from top to bottom with sealed glass jars, filled with all manner of canned goods.

He chuckled at the thought.

On the opposite side of the store, a few orchard bins were full of fresh fruits and vegetables, almost entirely dominated by a volleyball-sized, luridly purple fruit that resembled a cross between a cantaloupe and an eggplant.

“Ooohhh, I see you’ve noticed the baloupe!” the gnome crowed. “Care for a sample?”
“Sure,” Jack chuckled again. “I also need some sweet jams, good for eating with biscuits.”
“I knew I liked you the moment I saw you,” the gnome wrung her hands together.

She quickly cracked open one of the large purple fruits and sliced up a sample. The texture was similar to ripe peaches, but the taste was an entirely alien, a noxiously sweet, almost artificial flavor.

“Yeah, everyone makes that face when they try em. But here, taste this!” the shopkeeper offered Jack a small spoonful of technicolor purple jam.
“That’s… much better. I can still taste the baloupe, but, yeah, that’s much better. What’s going on there?” he swallowed.
“Little salt, a lot of dew ibosa to cut the flavor, and a loooong time aging,” she chuckled. “But don’t try stealing my recipe. It’s got a seal of exclusion with the trade commission, and I left out the secret ingredient!” the gnome narrowed her eyes.
“No worries there,” Jack laughed. “I’ll take a jar, and two more jars of whatever you recommend.”

“If I don’t come back with enough to go around, I’ll be in a real jam,” Jack smiled.

The little gnome looked up at him and quirked an eyebrow.

“What’s bein' stuck have to do with it?”

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