Karllandren gained his feet as Elandris bid him goodnight, letting the man depart with nothing more to say.  It was late, and physical exhaustion finally promised to offer him some hours undisturbed rest, although he delayed long enough to collect his few dishes and return them to the bar, as the young serving girl had retired for the night at some point during their conversation.  The steps hardly creaked under his weight, and soon enough he was away into his small room.<br/><br/>Not large by any standards, it was made especially crowded for all his gear that was neatly stowed away in saddlebags and packs.  Much like Elandris, Karllandren ignored the bed as a sleeping option; the war had been hard fought and beds had been unknown.  While as a lad, and even before the war, to sleep on the floor would never have crossed his mind.  Now accustomed to a solid floor or hard ground under his shoulders, Karllandren merely placed a blanket on the floor to lay on.  Sleep came quickly, and tired as he was it was without the plague of nightmares and inescapable dreams.<br/><br/>The sun was just peeking over the horizon when Karllandren moved to the stable yard behind the Inn.  With stout boots and leggings, and a simple sleeveless shirt, he was already hard at work.  He had acquired a sturdy war hammer from itâ€™s place on his saddle, a weapon he rarely actually used but carried just in case, and in one dirt floored corner of the stable had positioned a large wooden log.  Powerful muscles would knot and bulge across his shoulders, back and chest as he would swing the heavy hammer into the log, moving it a few inches one way or the other with each impact.  It strengthened the wrists and grip, as well as being a fine work out for the upper body and into the core as you struggled to keep yourself stable with each awkward swing.<br/><br/>But one of his many morning exercises, he had warmed up with the sword forms instructed him in his youth and perfected during his upstart years as a Knight.  His sword hung, sheathed, from one post of Longstepâ€™s stall, the veteran animal already brushed down and contently munching away at bucket of oats and fresh hay.  His shield and armor, and most of his belongings, were still neatly tucked away in his room until it would be time to depart.<br/><br/>He refused to pause for a breath in his exercises, pushing himself to the brink of exhaustion instead.  Better to push oneself, to build endurance and staying power rather then huge muscle that would tire you quickly.  His bare shoulders showed the deep worn patches of skin from long years abrasion from the straps of his heavy armour, and the only scar evident was a neat puncture of a swordâ€™s tip just below his left collar bone, received at the battle of Alganiase Ford in a duel with some Draggenden commander.  It was his only scar, the only time an opponentâ€™s blade had gotten through his guard in any meaningful blow; scratches, bruises and the like were common enough, but sturdy armor and a good shield had turned most blows before they could touch his skin.