Trying to compare Joanne, Ricken, and Miriel was like trying to compare a lance, a bow, and a hammer. Just as they shared their purposes as weapons, all three Shepherds shared a love and talent for magic and learning-but that was where the similarities ended. This seemed to make them gravitate towards one another, and they would frequently find themselves discussing magical tactics, plotting them out on a map before going out to the training grounds.

To say these tactics didn't end well would be an understatement. Knocking enemies into the air with wind magic so that archers could knock them out of the air, or letting enemies fall prone for the close-combat fighters to squash like a beetle on its back had some merit, but the mix of wind and electric magic only gave them standing hair and bad times. (Though it certainly wasn't as bad as mixing fire and wind magic; Fredrick found it necessary to take their tomes away for the evening after that, on top of making them clean up the weapons tent. But that was nothing that Joanne couldn't solve with some honey cakes and a certain sweet-toothed thief.)

Miriel was stiff and meticulous, down to making sure that her glasses and hat weren't crooked. Nothing could be out of place, nothing could be slightly askew. Even a corner crease in one of her books set her on a long-winded rant full of words that not even Joanne, who practically lived in books, could decipher. But it seemed to genuinely distress Miriel when things were out of order; Joanne found herself making a more conscious effort to make sure her things in her tent were in order when Miriel would visit. Though Miriel would still touch and adjust things, it became a little less frequent when Joanne's belongings were straight.

The older woman didn't have much regard for her own well-being-far too often she would engrossed in what she was reading and neary walk off a cliff, or into a beehive, or once into the men's bathing tent. (Thankfully Cordelia intervened before disaster broke.) Even when injured on the battlefield, she much preferred to keep her injuries to herself. She seemed confused when Joanne insisted on wrapping up a light gash on her forearm.

"But of course, Miriel. You're my comrade, and my friend. Besides, we can't keep practicing magic if you're hurt, now can we? It wouldn't be the same without you."

Joanne later found an old theory book on her desk with a note written in artful script, saying that perhaps she would "find that this piece will sufficiently stimulate your academic mind."

She smiled and tucked the book into her coat.