“What is that atrocious odor?” Zyran gagged as he stepped into the Grand City of Atutania.
No, not grand. Nothing about the plain, unrefined peasant-for-a-city that was Atutania was deserving of the title of grand. His father, Hisham, now that was someone who was fitting of the title “Grand Prince”. His home of Atuunis was fitting of being called grand, but the shithole that he was forced to travel to? Unacceptable! It’s an insult.
Prince Zyran was someone who hated traveling and he hated it even more when the end of his journey made the slums feel like paradise. For almost a fortnight, with nothing but three of the best guardsmen that the Siada family could afford traveled with him, Zyran encountered all sorts of horrors. He experienced the lack of a comfortable bed and had to settle for inns like he was some commoner. Imagine that! Zyran Siada having to sleep in a bed no bigger than how far he could stretch his limber legs. And that was on the nights where they could rest comfortably…Or whatever the commoners thought comfort was. There was no servant to wash him, dress him, or sit there as he vented about the problems he had. The closest thing to that was the owner of these inns, but after barely scratching the surface, they silenced him and even threatened to kick him and his hired guards out of the inn.
So what if he offered to buy the inn if these owners kicked everyone else out so he and his traveling companions could have the place to themselves? It’s not like he insulted the wives and partners of these innkeepers. Zyran wouldn’t dare do that.
Well that’s why he’s in such a sour mood. No inns or commoner levels of comfort for nearly a week. Word traveled fast about the entitled prince of Atuunis fast and inns refused him. But he had standards.
Zyran walked alone through the main festival grounds of the Day of Heroes. It wasn’t the worst, he supposed. There was a certain flare to it, but it lacked refinement. The smells that penetrated his senses was like a sneak attack from someone without honor. Or when the servants address him as just “Zyran”. No use of “my lord” or “prince”. It’s so unrefined and undignified. What he felt invade his nose was the lack of spices.
The prince, whose white hair, attire of an elaborately-designed robe with silk sashes holding it up, and entire bravado came to a stop at one of the…chefs were trying to entice him with what, as the man called it, an Atutanian delicacy.
“It’s a meat pie. It doesn’t even look like you seasoned it,” The Hahrali prince sourly said, disgust on his face and he made a point to make sure the seller knew it.
“So do you want it or not?”
And the disgust devolved into a deeper level of disgust that was also insulted. “You really think I would poison my perfect body with this…filth?” With a laugh, Zyran walked away.
Not long, Zyran felt his insides grumble with hunger and he ended up buying one of the atrocious meat pie (certainly not like the Sfeeha the cooks make back home) only so he wouldn’t succumb to hunger going into the proving grounds. Each bite felt like he was insulting his palette. The unseasoned beef and how overcooked it was was demeaning to someone like him. It felt like the ultimate betrayal. Despite that, he consumed it so he had the energy for what knew was going to be a difficult day.
Zyran, with a belly full of spiritually-poisoned subsistence, had finally freed himself of the decaying odor of mediocracy that were the streets of Atutania and was closer to the proving grounds where he would show just how far superior he was to everyone. It’s where he would start his journey to become a knight of the order and prove to his father that, though his siblings have all achieved far greater things he has done thus far, being a Warden would far surpass all of them.
But alas, his desire would have to wait. What kept him was one of the worst things imaginable for the prince. Something so horrendous that it made the quiver on his back, the golden bow that was under it, and all muscles in his body ache.
“A line? Really?” He groaned, exasperated. He crossed his arms over each other, almost pouting and tapping his foot quite impatiently.
There was two people in front of him. One was a short redhead whose name seemed familiar. Lina Ariesca? The family name was, at least familiar to him but he couldn’t be bothered to remember. If it was important enough for him to actually care to remember, then he would’ve.
When she moved on, the other who Zyran caught quite the barbaric odor. His nose was sensitive, especially after being exposed to the natural scent of Atutania, the Shithole City, there was something equally as unripen as whoever was in front of him.
And then their name came.
Sternwyss.
What kind of name was that? Certainly no name he has ever heard of. It almost sounded elvish, but that couldn’t be possible. Why would they be here?
Zyran took notice of the ears and that confirmed it. He didn’t know whether to just ask the would-be tree-hugger if they were an elf or just some deformed human or if he should leave it be. It was beneath him to bring up such a matter but it was bothering him. So he decided to follow through with it, but before he could, they moved on so Zyran would have to save that for later.
He stepped forward and looked at the man in armor who stood behind the reception desk. “Name?” She asked in the most ungodly tone of voice. So devoid of passion.
“Are you seriously asking my name? Do you not know who I am?” Zyran gave him the benefit of the doubt and let her gaze upon his face so it would come to her.
“I’ve got no clue. Name?”
Zyran felt his blood boil so much that he was almost going to raise his bow at him. That level of disrespect was treasonous in Atuunis, but the diplomat in him that his mother raised him to be found restraint and clung to it for dear life because he feared his bruised ego wouldn’t let it slide. “I am Prince Zyran, of the GRAND merchant guild of Siada." He added extra emphasis to what he felt was important.
The man seemed to write it down on some piece of parchment. “Ranged combat is over there. There are targets you can shoot that fancy bow of yours at.”
For a moment, he wondered if he really should voice his displeasure with the way she insulted the Prince of Atuunis, but he let it go for now. Zyran would make her regret it when he aced all the trials and blew everyone out of the water.
The prince simply walked into the proving grounds, near the targets and readied himself to outshine everyone. They’ll see the shine of his bow and he’ll amaze them with how far he’s come with his magic. “If anyone wants to watch how it’s done--” He took notice of the peasant Hahrali with the crossbow and scoffed, “--how a real archer gets it done, feel free to watch. Perhaps you might learn a thing or two.” Again, he looked at the Hahrali with the crossbow, as if to direct that directly at them.
And Zyran withdrew his bow and pulled a steel-tipped arrow from the matching gold quiver on his back. As he took his position, he aimed for the center of the target.