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[color=CF5B5B][sub]Quinta District | Spring / 844[/sub][/color]
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[color=Orange][b]"Up - go on, up y'get!"[/b][/color] [color=Silver]At the crack of dawn, the rooster bellowed in due course.

	A throbbing, pulsating ache still lingered on Palmiro's right temple, one of egregious proportion and unrelenting annoyance, though where such a pain had originated from he knew not. Perhaps it were the sleepless hours he'd had, for days in and out, where the men clad in green cloaks had visited their home once more, that time with even less formalities. There had been a scuffle - nothing too dangerous, just some shoves and shouts, but it hadn't settled away from the young lad's mind quite so. That was the trouble behind such things; there was never any answers, nor explanations for those type of engagements Uncle Mateo had found himself caught in. Less communicative, of course, was the Rooster himself.

	At the foot of Palmiro's bed - or rather pile of sacks softened by a bundle of straw, wrapped in old bedding - stood [url=https://cdn-us.anidb.net/images/main/215648.jpg]Oskar Barlow[/url], the serviceman himself. An experienced fellow, so greatly lavished in deep-rooted cuts and gashes of old that one couldn't imagine him without them, as though any sort of idea of clean, untainted handsomeness was impossible for the man. He towered over him, the shadow of his figure looming across the bed, and he barked the way he barked. Orderly, and with presence. Never had it changed for the man, and never would it. The old guard sniffed and wiped his finger across his thick, paintbrush moustache, before he whacked the side of the sack bed with his foot, dislodging the perfectly balanced straw structure beneath the boy. Palmiro tumbled out onto the floor, as he did almost every morning. It was almost a ritual, even to a detriment, and it was his home after all.

	Oskar didn't take much amusement from the very same fall Palmiro had made. It got him up, unfortunately enough, and the lad had things to do. Yet he didn't stoop down to the low ground he laid upon, and instead paced away toward the door.[/color]

[color=Orange][b]"I need you to bag up some wheat, and then take it to Klein's market shop - pronto. We're behind again."[/b][/color] [color=Silver]Oskar ordered whilst Palmiro slowly rose himself off the floor.[/color] [color=Orange][b]"Can you see to it then?"[/b][/color]

[color=CF5B5B][b]"I'll get to it."[/b][/color] [color=Silver]He groaned a little. It wasn't like he could have shown him any greater sign of disappointment or disapproval. Both the uncle and the nephew were lucky that such a prestigious, as one's personality would have had them believe, stationary guardsman would've even gifted them the splendour of attention, let alone hosted them, during his six month service leave. Kindly so, they all tutted. Kindly so, indeed.[/color]

[color=Orange][b]"Any lazier and you'd be an MP."[/b][/color] [color=Silver]He spat with a subtle, mischievous grin. It was all in the tone - that's how he knew it was at least a little laced in satire. But only a little. Palmiro straightened out his back and fixed his posture with a groan, then after Oskar had hurried off to busy himself out the front of the house, he dusted down his clothes to try and make them look a little cleaner. It was obvious that he lived in a military man's home - his attire reeked of the colour olive and beige.

	He walked outside with a wheat sack over each shoulder. They weren't as heavy as he'd imagined, as by the bindings of trade, the initial stock had lost its load through hand-exchange taxes imposed by each and every tradesman it'd crossed. Oskar had unofficially done so the same, for the scent of bread was rich in the neighbour's bakery. A stagger took him out onto the street and he passed Oskar making conversation with two uniformed soldiers of the Stationary Guard. It was a friendly chat, indicated by their grins and less tense statures, but their eyes glistened with that look of seniority-respect. Oskar was as much a soldier as Mateo had been, except it seemed that his company was all the merrier to have him around. Palmiro trudged on, out into the paved streets, in time to meet the first few carts that rattled on by. A barrel of apples fell out of one and nearly rolled over his shoes, but luck was on his side and no such pain occurred. Odd that - he thought - he never had much luck with luck itself.

	As he bumbled along his side of the street, his mind drifted as it often did. It covered the same topics in succession - much alike the news shouted out by heralds and printed on the papers. He wondered about his home, or lack thereof. He asked himself if his mother was okay, or if his father was as grumpy as always. He wondered about his horse: Lewis. Then came the daily happenings, or how quiet it had been since that one Gabriel boy had left. A shame - he always repeated - to see a good acquaintance go. But that was how things were on the move. Not a single city, street, building or room felt like home. There was never something concrete to call his own.

	He passed on the wheat without much fanfare. The tradesman looked down at the sack and scowled at how light it was in weight. But it was enough. Always the same, they said together, and Palmiro flashed him a weak smile. Then, it was back down the street, the same way he'd come. He wondered if he'd visit the inner-district stables for the hell of it again, or if there was more light labour cut out for him. Though most prolific to his thoughts was as he asked himself why things were so quiet. It was inherently linked, though, to where his uncle had gone, and the feeling made when he realised he hadn't seen Mateo in almost an entire day.[/color]