Quinta District | Spring / 844
There was a sort of dampness in the air - an enriched residue that made a sweet, springtime syrup in the atmosphere. All things were tender, and beautiful, and as the sun had risen over the horizon from the East, there was a dainty tone of colour that coated the land. Alleyways remained in darkened shade, but the streets were blessed with a holy, ceremonious dawn. The early onlookers had gathered in the streets to set up market stalls, assorting colourful fruits beside commodities, books, papers and the excess, unsold clothing from last year's winter. Many people still slept in their warm beds or contemplated whether getting outside it was really all that necessary. It was, as easily put, the most ordinary of days, the usual hustle and bustle of the day-to-day life, just waking up, slowly.
The previous night, there'd been a theatre show. It was a small one, about four streets down from the garrison headquarters at the centre of the district. Now, the names of these plays were usually more famous to the local scenes and districts rather than the span of humanity, but the one in particular was a delightfully recognisable one: The Squirrel and The Bear. Now, the story wasn't much to ride off of, it was more a familial tragedy than something overly dramatic and thought provoking. It had a strange mix of sock puppetry and live action acting combined into one. Of course, no one really cared about the writer's intentions of its delusionary, paranoid ramblings of a cold, schizophrenic man, and had taken much joy out of the "out-of-norm" storytelling. It was hosted to a larger-than-usual crowd. The actors had their standing ovations from the families that had gathered, and many had stayed out late that night to celebrate the upswinging mood.
Down at the garrison headquarters, there was a detachment of military police officers. Some children had seen them as they walked past. Some smiled up to them, but many ignored them. No one really paid much attention to what they said or who they asked questions to, or even why they had arrived, but they were there, and it was the business of the military to deal with, not the common man, woman or child of the citizenry.
Four days ago, the Scouting Legion had come back, with bruises no less. There was at first a great buzz surrounding their return. Whose family had lost someone, and whose would be next - that sort of stuff. The grieving ended though by the second day. It was the usual. Each month, those brave souls would wander out there, somewhere, and come back in states of injury never quite seen before. They had to sneak the cart of dead men in the night after, just to be sure. One night, there was a cannon shot - indicative of a titan spotted somewhere in the outer walls, where small villages and homesteads sometimes sat. There wasn't much that could be done to ensure their security, but the Stationary Guard were kind enough to help if they were available.
It was one of those things of the outside world. People feared the idea of the titan, but not what it really was. It was just something out there, beyond the walls, ever roaming and - to even some - a potential farce. But who cared, the casualties of the military were light enough to prove that something lurked out there. And thank every goddess and deity - they did - that it was kept that way, to the quietest parts of human history.
It was still in the early hours. About seven in the morning in fact. The sun had risen but not quite above the walls themselves, where they lingered and tried to claw their way over. More citizens had entered the streets for the early morning catch of shopping and socialising. It was a loving, great time. At one end of the street, a woman snuck out a man's window, and on the other side, two argued over the way the weather was supposed to be, instead of its sunniest, almost cloudless state it was at then. A red sky hung over the morning. Things were calm. Ever so calm. As though they were to be for the last time, and the tail end of history itself.
