That in itself was unremarkable. At times, it might even have been preferable. A few months and a lifetime ago, it would even have been the status quo: though it would have been the sunrise over Mugroba that roused him from his slumber, or perhaps the insistent boot of a mercenary Sergeant if the night's revelries had left him dulled to the gentle caress of Ire's morning kiss.
On such days, however, rising early had come with purpose. There were tasks, duties, and responsibilities that justified being awake in those fledgeling hours of the day. Here in Vienda, here in this new life, there were no such justifications to be found. The lance of sunlight that had pierced through the worn wound in the fabric of his threadbare curtains had been nothing but antagonism, compelling him to consciousness merely so that he could endure the solitude of his newfound existence for a few hours longer.
It was the second consecutive morning that Ire had contributed to his personal punishment in such a way. Thus far, the rainy season had lived up to its name, Oisin's early days in this new city greeted by clouds, mists, and rain. Yesterday, the sun had ambushed him, a sneak attack of stray sunlight creeping over the rooftop opposite. Today, it had struck again, and Oisin refused to allow himself to be a victim of such indecency for a third time.
Oisin's morning routine had progressed as it always did, the schedule merely advanced by the rude awakening. The unfortunate side effect was the vacant time that followed, idle nothingness as Oisin's gaze shifted from disinteresting wall to disinteresting wall within the modest abode he rented. Throughout his childhood and his mercenary years, he had lived with very little, possessed nothing that could not quickly be gathered together in a sachel, slung over the shoulder, and carried to wherever his life took him next. He had not understood the lavish furnishings and decorations on which the more wealthy spent their hard-earned shills, but now he wondered if this was the answer: that such things existed to occupy the gaze when one's attention had nothing better to do.
Finally, time's molasses pace advanced enough that life beyond his apartment began to stir. He heard the shuffling, clangs, and muffled shouts as the bakery beneath him began to stir into life, the progressive decline of the elderly owner's hearing robbing him of any consideration that might have moderated the volume of his voice. Each morning began in much the same way, a repeated argument that Oisin had failed to not overhear too many times: the frustrated lament of the old baker who'd just trudged through the cold and wet to the venue of his life's work; the nagging counter-argument of the daughter that resented the ingratitude in his tone for the care she provided now that he lived under their roof; the patient but frustrated sigh of the granddaughter who politely reminded them both of the valuable boon Oisin's rented room provided to their coffers.
That was Oisin's cue to leave, exploiting the distraction that the conversation provided to escape his room and descend the stairs with the utmost stealth. Like the sun before them, however, the stairway also betrayed him, a creak of straining wood heralding his descent from the floor above. Oisin felt it before he saw it, the rush of dread that preceded his landlady's apparition, suddenly at the threshold of the stairway as if she somehow moved only whenever Oisin blinked or glanced away.
"Good morning, Mr Ocasta."
The greeting was innocent enough, and yet practically drowning in subtext and implication. The daughter's eyes roamed from shoe to sternum as Oisin stood paralysed on the stairway, suddenly feeling an alarming amount of empathy with the livestock at a cattle market.
"G-good morning," Oisin stammered back, experimenting with a single step of advancement down the stairway. The landlady didn't move, though made no efforts to prevent his advance either, merely herding Oisin into uncomfortably close proximity as he reached equal footing and squeezed his way past. "Sorry," he flustered out, scrambling for some sort of platitude to justify the sudden urge to flee that gripped him. "Can't stop, I've important business to attend to this morning."
Undeterred, the gaze of the baker's daughter followed him as he retreated towards the door, stumbling slightly as he shuffled half-backwards, keeping the woman carefully in his sights. "One of these days," she uttered, as if they were the most sordid and carnal words ever heard by living ears, "You must let me have you for breakfast. Or dinner." A smile flickered on the widow's lips, an eyebrow arching with unspoken subtext. "Or both."
A nervous laugh leaked out of Oisin, but before he could provide any sort of response, a staggering backwards step almost saw him collide into the next obstacle in his path. He turned just in time to grasp at the tray of uncooked loaves that the baker's grandaughter carried in her arms, halting their momentum before the two of them sent the unbaked goods toppling to the floor. Oisin's conversation with the youngest of the bakers was entirely unspoken, and yet whatever was conveyed in the brief moment of eye contact left them both flushed, increasingly flustered, and eager to look at anything or anywhere other than each other.
"Yes, well -"
Oisin's eyes darted around himself in desperate hope of a distraction. None presented itself.
"Good morning to you both," he stuttered out, bowing his head and rushing for the door, as quickly as decorum would allow.
It took minutes for Oisin to regain his composure. The walk helped. Morning was breaking over the Painted Ladies, and the hustle and bustle that filled the city streets during the day was slowly beginning to yawn into life. What should have been a purposeful stride was instead replaced with more of an amble, Oisin distracting himself by taking a mental inventory of the buildings as he passed: shops, residences, in a rainbow of colours. His mind kept a tally of each, the mere act of keeping track of how many buildings shared the same shade of yellow providing a welcome foxhole amid the battlefield of the morning's exploits. Had he known what lay before him, had he divined what awaited him at the foot of the stairs, he might have escaped to street's soothing surroundings sooner. A solution for another day, perhaps, as well as a potential escape from the lonely solitude of his current home. Perhaps it was merely the familiarity of a childhood spent on similar streets, but no matter how deserted a street like this might be at any given hour, Oisin never seemed to find himself feeling alone.
Four yellow and three blue buildings - and a statistically insignificant assortment of other colours between - separated Oisin's home from the destination that he had set out towards. Woven Delights. He had not made note of the name before now, but the establishment's presence had imprinted on his mind each time he passed. There was something enticing about the array of fabrics that could be glimpsed within, some subconscious urge to experience the texture of each fabric that he had yet to indulge. Not that he intended to do so now either, of course - somehow he doubted that a strange man wandering in and caressing everything would be looked upon favourably - but still: even a partial indulgence was an indulgence just the same.
Oisin's hand reached for the doorway, gently testing to see if it was locked. The soft, musical jingle of bells as it swung open confirmed that it was not, and yet Oisin was hesitant as he stepped across the threshold; some residual aftermath from his escape from the bakery, perhaps.
"Hello?" he called, struggling to find a happy medium between confident and cautious. "Sorry, I hope I'm not intruding before you're open."