He was whistling to himself, content with a fine day's trade and a good trade's work, as he walked the whole way home. He drew his scarf closer about his neck, the wooden crates that held his tools rattling from their perch on a working saddle. Despite everything, he was rather carefree. He didn't mind all the soldiers on the streets as much as other ponies did; never bothered him none. Streets sure were quieter though. He turned a corner at Fifth and Mayhew, down a street between the wall of a high road and the dilapidated facades of lower apartments that had seen the winter come and go over ten times since they last housed a living pony. The upper apartments were still lively though, as they were accessed from the high roads.