The sun hadn't risen yet. The sky was a pre-dawn gray, with streaks of pink and orange lining the horizon in the east. A few birds had begun to stir and chirp, but they were the only ones awake in the garrison thus far.

Well, besides Sgt. Kincade.

Sitting on the battlements, he stared off towards the hills. At this early hour, they were still shrouded in mist, much like the foggy crags of the highlands where he grew up. Come sunup, the mist would all burn away and it was be back to business, but for a few moments, he permitted himself the luxury of nostalgia.

The footsteps crunching on the gravel of the courtyard resounded in the overpowering silence. Evander sighed – back to business. He had a charge to train. Swinging his legs off the wall he slid back down on to the parapet and strolled down the narrow set of steps.

"Mornin' Private."

"Morning, sir."

The answer was short, and more than a little half-awake. Still, Tom figured that the fact he was standing up and ready to go was nothing less than a miracle at this early hour. He bit back a yawn and moved instead to stretch himself out, shaking his head to clear it of the morning cobwebs. "Reporting for duty."

Well, so it wasn't exactly duty. So what? He was still reporting, and with any luck his little extra work would send him flying on his way to becoming a warrior. Kincade knew what he was doing, and his willingness to give a little more time to a very young private was a good sign for Thomas. He had something. Some talent, coupled with drive...and enough of it for a tested warrior to notice. That was very encouraging. It meant that his choice of vocation probably wouldn't claim his life.

At least, not right away.

He shook his head again. "Sir? What shall I do first?"

He'd shown up. It was a good start. Kincade had worked them yesterday, enough so that even the farmboys used to rising before the sun to start their chores would struggle to pull themselves from their bedrolls. Discipline would be key in the training process.

He nodded to Mochrie. "First things first. Leave all yer weapons o'er there." He jerked his head to the side, gesturing towards the wall. Kincade himself appeared entirely unarmed. Well, there was the knife in his boot – he never went fully unarmed as a matter of principle, bathing included. But this was as close as he generally got. He was unarmored as well – no boiled leather, no studded brigantine, not even a padded gambeson. Only a worn gray linen shirt that may have started its life as a shade of white sometime in the distant past.

"Yer body is your greatest weapon," Kincade explained, padding in a circle around the parade ground, occasionally casting an eye upward at the slowly-lightening sky. "Every sword, knife, or pike you hold is only an extension o' that weapon. An extension ye might not always have as a luxury." He'd made his way over to where the stray practice dummies were kept, selected one, and hauled it into the center of the courtyard. "Now, I want you t o punch it."

Tom obediantly shrugged off the few weapons he possessed as well as the standard issue leather armor, but he kept his eyes on Evander as the sergeant gave his instructions. Of course the body was the greatest weapon; without it a sword or pike or anything at all was completely and utterly useless. He found himself nodding in agreement and then stopped, not entirely certain if that would be considered impudent or not. Was he allowed to speak?

The farm boy figured it to be a yes, since there was no one else watching and Sarge hadn't punished him yesterday, but at the moment he had nothing to say and so simply shrugged and grinned at him. Thomas began to stretch out his muscles, taking care to keep them from seizing up and cramping. He had a long day of training ahead of him and meant to be in enough shape to survive it. "If you like, sir."

He grinned again and strode over to the dummy, then eyed it once and gave it a good, solid punch-starting with his wrist facing the sky, and then rotating it to face the ground by the time it connected with his victim. Tom laughed and shook his head a bit, giving the sergeant a sheepish look. "It's a decent punch, sir, least according to Lieutenant Tremaine, but that dummy ain't movin'. I fear I can be a bit slow when I'm not angry enough."

Kincade nodded, examining the boy's punch. He didn't lock his elbow, and he knew better than to hold his thumb on the inside of his fist – a mistake many amateurs suffered broken fingers for. The sergeant said nothing in reply to Mochrie's last comment, but he understood the boy's meaning. He knew the value of anger, the strength rage lent a man. But there was a time and a place for unleashing the fury. That in and of itself could compose an entire lesson.

"Not bad. But you're punching from the shoulder." Kincade positioned himself beside Mochrie. "Stand with one foot in front of the other - tha's right. Now, punch from the hip. Your momentum ought t'carry you around a full step, so you're facin' the other way. Pull back, then step. It'll carry the weight of your body in with the punch."

He adopted the stance he'd just described, then, spun and lashed out, his fist catching the dummy and rocking it back enough so that the sand-bags at the thing's base were all that kept it upright. He turned to his pupil: "Throw a strong enough first punch, and there's won't be need for a second. Try again."