As Tago entered the entertainment district, the cobblestone path he was on became occupied by more and more patrons, each dizzier and more belligerent than the last. Around him lay scattered, what felt like, forty or so pubs, theatres, and gambling halls each with their unique gripping mixture of sounds and smells, seeping out of blackened curtain entrances.


    Tago was not quite old enough to drink and not young enough to still find its taboo appealing. He did, however, enjoy the music. Occasionally, he would find himself slipping into the nearby alleyways and listening to the local groups perform ballads for the hill folk. His favorite songs were those with themes of honor, triumph, and very recently unrequited love. Tago pressed on, if one is truly determined they can continue on the cobblestone path, without falling into the allure of the pubs and enter straight into the masonry district.


    By this time of day, the masonry shops had been boarded up and closed. Even after closing, patrons could still order supplies, materials, and fixtures by dropping off order sheets into the standby deposit boxes located outside of all the masonry shops. The orders would not be processed until the next day but it saved some hillock an extra trip into the city.


    Finally, Tago arrived at the opposite end of the Rudango city walls, known to the residents as the housing district. Very few visitors spent much time in this district and those who did either had family in the city or got lost leaving the entertainment district. The small square homes were uniform in both shape and color. The gray roofs, matched the color of the surrounding walls, evoking a sense of security and conformity. The homes ran parallel to the inside of the city walls and wrapped around outward until they reached the masonry district. Within this concrete suburbia, lived Tago’s paternal aunt Dahlia. Dahlia was a wonderfully sweet woman and a caring mother. Like her sister, she was a hard-working, no-nonsense kind of lady who was as devoted to her family as her husband was to stone masonry. Tago’s uncle owned a successful masonry that specialized in crafting kitchen fixtures out of exotic stones. If Tago had not taken so long wrapping up his preserve stand at the market today, he likely would have stopped by to say hello.


    Tago exited the city wall and his feet were greeted once more by the smooth dirt path that weaved up and around the soft rolling hills that surrounded Rudango. He trotted toward the Post Masters office, which was located a few hundred meters outside the eastern gate of Rudango, opposite the Royal Outpost. Tago nodded at the Patrolmen who stood guard on the perimeter of the outpost and turned to face the Post Masters hut.


    The Post Masters hut was a generously sized wooden structure bearing the King''s crest atop a white envelope. The inside resembled that of a deconstructed beehive, manned by a single dauntless worker, desperately trying to alphabetize letters and parcels into neat rows that ran along the inside of the hut. Post in the Domingo province was not sent to a home address but rather addressed to an individual by their surname and kept at the post-masters hut until retrieved by the recipeint. The recipient could enter the postmaster’s hut, greet the postmaster if they felt so inclined, and provide him their surname as well as the 5-digit identification number associated with the specific individual. Additionally, citizens of the Domingo province were allotted 12 mail stipends a year to send letters to whom they wished. Tago couldn''t read so he hardly ever received or sent written letters. Nonetheless, he entered the Post Masters hut and the small yellow bell that hung above the door, chimed sharply, as if startled by Tago''s arrival.


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    “I''ll be right with you, just give me one minute” shouted a man with slick gray hair who had his back turned to the front door. The man stood behind a wooden counter that ran across the length of the hut. He held a long width of parchment and was recording an inventory of the larger parcels, that had not yet been claimed. He stacked the packages on top of one another in order of ascending size and slid them into a corner. The pile of parcels seemed to fit themselves neatly into the space provided by other similar stacks of packages. The man turned to face Tago and greeted him as he exhaled


    “Hello Tago, how was your day at the Market” Stanley asked as he rolled up the parchment he was holding.


    “Hi, Stanley. It went well, I sold almost all of what I had brought, so my pack feels light as a feather. I traded some of the leftover preserves I had for a bunch of carrots and a handful of water chestnuts.” Tago didn’t dare to mention the bag of artisan turnovers that were gifted to him by the tired-eyed young lady. Stanley was a broad man, with nimble fingers and quite a distinguished sweet tooth. Had Tago alluded to what he had in his possession, Stanley would have entered into a persisting frenzy. A peek would have turned into a taste, a taste into a bite, and a bite into a cloud of powdered sugar and crumbs.


    “That’s wonderful” the man bellowed. “If you ever do have any unsold jams or jellies, feel free to deposit them right here with me, no postage required !” he declared, as he rifled through a row of envelopes with the grace of a tenured harpist.


    “Your Surname?” Stanley asked requisitely.


    Tago sighed and recited the information in a soulless tone, “Abaroa,  4-97-23 and 4-97-21


    “Ahh, here we are, three envelopes addressed to your moth...erh... I mean, resident 4-97-21.” Stanley handed Tago the letters and then turned toward a stack of packages that rested against the wall.


    “Give me one second,” Stanley said as he ran his fingers down the pile of packages.


    Tago examined the letters, the first envelope had a bright red strawberry stamp in the center, it likely contained a pamphlet with details regarding the upcoming berry festival. The other two letters bore the king''s crest beneath a golden sword, the stamp used by officers of the Royal outpost. Tago placed the envelopes snuggly into the slit on the outside of his pack. Stanley returned holding a small wooden box wrapped tightly with twine. Stanley handed Tago the box and cried, “Where is Gonzo?


    The two were inseparable, except for today of course. The Rat had come down with some sort of cold and decided to stay home while Tago went to market. Gonzo deserved the rest, he had been hard at work taste-testing the jams that Tago and his mother were planning on submitting at this year''s berry festival.


    Tago inspected the box as he responded, “He’s not feeling well. But he should be back on his feet in no time.”


    Tago shook the box and it produced a familiar rattle. Tago beamed and looked at Stanley, “I have to go, I''ll see you at the festival”, he said as he slid the small wooden box into his pack.


    Stanley smiled and waved, then unrolled the width of parchment that he had tucked in his pocket, before turning back to face a never-ending sea of packages