It was a wonderful morning.
The sun in Rochel City was already high in the sky, its golden rays spilling across rooftops and the streets.
The city was alive with sound as usual, one could hear the chatter of merchants hawking their wares in the market square, the clip-clop of horses pulling carts filled with produce to sell in the markets, and of course the laughter of children chasing each other down the narrow streets.
The smell of freshly baked bread drifted from a nearby bakery, and the smell of iron filled the air from the blacksmith.
Amid this morning bustle, a lone mailman whistled cheerfully as he made his way down the road.
His satchel was heavy against his side, crammed with letters bound for inns, shops, and private homes.
His job wasn't for the weak-hearted — long hours under the hot sun, endless walking, and the occasional angry domesticated beast but he took pride in it.
Someone had to keep people connected, after all.
