The fog choked Castleton's stone walls. Dim lanterns, two hung on each wooden, battered carriage, were barely visible, even when the naked eye was in close proximity. In front of each carriage was a line of soldiers, ranging from those with bright, youthful enthusiasm and others with worn, veteran eyes. Each soldier carried nothing but a leather pouch held upon their shoulders, each bag holding cigars, mints and prized possessions.
One only held the necessities-a comb, two pairs of light, military issued clothing, and a set of standard stationary. Conlan did not care to be reminded of his home. Not yet.
In front of each line of conscripted soldiers stood a soldier of a higher rank. Each one held a roll of parchment with carefully inked names, calling the next person in line to check them in. Each one sent them to a carriage that would send them to their fate.
The man in front of the boy's line spit tobacco the ground before yelling for the next soldier. Conlan ran his fingers through his hair, hoping it looked matted enough, and walked steadily to the man.
"Name?" the man asked.
"Smith." The man flipped through the list.
"First?"
"Conlan."
The man stopped flipping through the list. His beady eyes studied the boy closely. "You from around Castleton?"
Conlan nodded.
"Where from?"
"From the outskirts. Near the south wall," he answered steadily.
The man smacked on his tobacco. "Fancy accent. You a highborn or something?" Before Conlan could reply, the man continued on a rant. "Rotten, them highborns are, getting out easy from this fight." Conlan mussed his hair again. "You're in carriage fifteen, second to last on the left. Next!"
Conlan walked quickly to the carriage, still uneasy from the conversation. He shook his head. Who he was didn't matter. Once he sat on the splintered bench, he would, from then on, be known as Conlan Smith.
He was one of the last to sit on the carriage's bench, and the last to see Hyrule's stone cold pride disappear in the foggy distance.