Marcel awoke early in the morning to a slight headache and a small puddle of drool that had pooled next to his head. He wiped his mouth clean of the drivel and sat up- several of the other guard were sleeping, some were already up and preparing their gear, and a few had already left. He was certain he wouldn't be the first to arrive at the caravan, but he wouldn't be last. Swinging his legs over the side of one bed, Marcel stood in one smooth motion, rubbing his forehead with his good hand. This headache had better go away quickly. He went about donning his usual choice of accoutrements- a thin but padded leather vest under a short-sleeved scale shirt and cuirass. On his right hand he donned a plated gauntlet, while his left forearm received a scale vambrace, since it was both difficult and uncomfortable for his burnt hand to conform to gauntlets. He called a fellow Guardsman over to help him strap a single, heavy pauldron over the uniform surcoat and onto his left shoulder- Marcel felt it helped make up for the lack of a full gauntlet on that arm, and he liked to keep his right arm free and flexible to swing harder. There remained only his shield- Weaponward- which would be strapped to his left forearm over the vambrace. Normally, Marcel would wrap his left hand with bandages to hide its ugly presence, but since he would soon be leaving Belencrest he decided against it. The companions he would be traveling with would discover it eventually, anyway. The bearded Guardsman double checked to make sure his sword was secure on his hip, and set out into the morning streets. 

---

Even in the early hours of dawn, the Marketplace was bustling with activity. Occasionally, the general hubbub of conversation would falter slightly as Marcel bumped and nudged his way through crowds, his figure too large to weave in between. After passing several colorful market stalls, Marcel stopped and looked for a particular one, only to be greeted by an unfamiliar mustachioed face selling fruits. Marcel feared the worst. [i]Has she passed away?[/i] Marcel's thoughts grew grim as he continued to push through the swarm of breakfast-goers and early grocery shoppers. But then he saw her, standing at the final stall before the Market began to give way to the Westgate clearing. 

"Mornin', Miss Creedey", he said with a smile. The weathered and wrinkled woman turned with a start and with surprising agility, given her age. She had to be nearing eighty-five. 

"Marcel, my boy," she responded with her warm, rosy-cheek smile. She patted Marcel's unarmored shoulder with a flour-covered hand and stood on her tip-toes to kiss him on the cheek.

"I'm leaving today, Miss Creedey. Might be gone for a while. Figured I'd stop by."

"And right on time, too. I need a strong man to hold a heavy basket for an old woman like me." She slowly walked back into the shadow of her bright blue awning, retrieving a large basket full of light-brown rolls. They were only the size of his fist, but were thick and heavy. The smell alone was enough to get Marcel's stomach rumbling. Originally, Miss Creedey's stall was located further into the market, and had commonly sold intricate blankets, quilts, pillowcases, and things of similar nature. Sewing was a passion for Miss Creedey, though she never really took to weaving in any totem patterns. Nevertheless, her work was beautiful and rustic- the blankets Marcel used in the barracks were made by her, but when her husband passed away she struggled for money. She used most of the inheritance to buy a mid-sized oven suited for easy outdoor use (Thanks to totems) and began selling pastries, as well. Miss Creedey was of the opinion that the stalls closer to the gate clearings were the ones that were the most successful, since they would be the first someone coming into the city would see, and it would seem that since she started selling baked goods her dream was realized as she occupied "spot number one". 

Marcel held the basket of rolls in his good hand, high enough to not put too much strain on his muscle- the basket [i]was[/i] heavy- but not so high that Miss Creedey couldn't reach the pastries. He followed close behind as she laid out the bread on her stall tables in neat, picturesque piles. 

"These smell awful good, Miss Creedey."

"Then we'll just say that it's a coincidence that I have too many rolls in the basket for my plates out here." She smiled at Marcel and he smiled back. "Only a few more, now."

She was right. When they were finished, there were a few rolls left in the bottom of the basket. She bundled them up in her arms, wrapped them all into a cloth, and shoved the cloth-covered loaf into Marcel's bag, which already contained some rations but he wouldn't say no to Miss Creedey's bread. The two chatted as Miss Creedey continued her rounds, floating between oven and various tables. At one point, Marcel noticed her wedding ring slip off her wrinkled finger into the hot oven fires. When she wasn't looking, Marcel quickly reached into the fires with his burnt hand- it [i]just[/i] fit with the shield strapped to it- and retrieved it. 

"You've dropped this, Miss Creedey." Marcel said, presenting it to her with his good hand. The old woman beamed and twisted the ring back onto her finger. 

"Thank you my dear," she said as she grabbed Marcel's hand. He needed to leave, but she'd always hang onto your hand for longer than seemed necessary. Another one of her quirks. 

"Oh! Before you leave- where did you say you would be going again?"  

"Paolou," he repeated. He'd told her several days ago- wasn't sure if he was supposed to share that information for some reason. During his time with the City Guard, he'd learned that sometimes odd rules about what one can and cannot tell civilians were in place to protect both parties.

"I have a favor to ask you. As you know, Woad was born in Paolou." Marcel actually [i]hadn't[/i] known where her husband was born- he tended not to bring him up much when they would talk. The old baker retreated behind her oven for a moment, only to appear holding a small jar. 

"It was his wish to be scattered into the sea he loved so much," she declared, thrusting the jar into Marcel's good hand. It took him a moment to realize that he was holding Woad; or at least, what remained of him.

"Miss Creedey, I-" Marcel stared at the jar for a moment. Woad's wife was growing old and one of these days she wouldn't be able keep her oven fires going. He'd have a tough time saying it, but Miss Creedey meant a lot to Marcel. She was probably the closest thing to a mother that he'd ever have. This was the least he could do for the woman. 

"-I'll do it." 

"I'll miss you while you're gone, my boy." She kissed him on the cheek again. "Stay safe, but get! You don't want to be late and I don't think my customers take too kindly to a bear standing behind a stall." They both laughed.

As he walked into the clearing he carefully placed the jar into one of his pack's pockets. The lid was on very tight, but he still worried that he'd drop the pack and it would break. Marcel shaped up as he saw fellow Guardsmen in the clearing, huddling around the caravan he would be escorting. He almost walked up to Djonn- whom he saw first-, but noticed he was discussing something with Lieutenant Thorpe. He instead located his companion group, which at the moment consisted of a lone Silhainlé, gnawing on a cabbage. He always had a curious but cautious demeanor- if Marcel recalled correctly, the Lessir societies tended to keep to themselves- but here in the clearing surrounded by Guardsmen he looked comfortable. That is, as comfortable as someone in full gear about to traverse a long journey could be. He waved as he approached- not sure if Silhainlé even noticed him- but said nothing, his mind still occupied by Miss Creedey's wish.